lifted a bit on her toes and crept silently down the hallway. This city was plagued by thieves and pickpockets, and break-ins were not uncommon in this area. Her eyes remained fixed on the bar of light under her door. As she drew closer, a shadow passed across the glow.
Rachel’s skin went cold. Someone was in her apartment.
Swearing under her breath, she backed away. She had no weapon. She considered knocking on Mrs. Rosselli’s door, getting out of the hallway, but the garlic already stung her nose. Inside the old woman’s cramped apartment, the fumes would be blinding. Instead, she reached into a pocket and pulled out her cell phone.
She retreated to the stairwell door and shoved through it, keeping an eye on her door. As she stepped onto the landing, something cold pressed against the bare nape of her neck.
She recognized the barrel of a pistol.
A hard voice confirmed the threat. “Don’t move.”
4
October 10, 3:28 P.M.
Rockville, Maryland
Monk bounced his baby girl on his knee. Penelope squealed, wearing a goofy smile that plainly came from her father. Luckily that’s all she got from him. Her light auburn curls and delicate features were all from her mother.
“Monk, if you make her spit up …!”
Kat crossed out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. She still wore her dress blues. She had come back from Capitol Hill an hour ago, where she’d been canvassing some former intelligence contacts on behalf of Sigma, helping Painter Crowe shore up some political breeches. Her only concession to being home was to unpin her hair and let its full cascade drape below her shoulders.
Monk remained in his sweatpants and T-shirt. Since dropping Gray off at the airport, he’d come straight back to their new home in the Maryland suburbs. What else was there to do? He knew Gray had gone to bat for him, tried to get him on board for the investigation in Italy. But that had been a wash.
He shifted the baby onto his lap.
“I have her bottle warmed up,” Kat said, heading toward him with her arms out to take Penelope. She suddenly tripped, hopped a step, and caught her balance. She stared down at the floor. “Monk, how many times have I told you not to leave your hand just lying around?”
Monk rubbed the stub of his wrist. “The new prosthetic still chafes.”
Kat sighed heavily and took Penelope. “Do you know how much one of those costs?”
Monk shrugged. The DARPA-designed prosthetic was a marvel of bioengineering, incorporating the latest in mechanics and actuators, allowing sensory feedback and surgically precise movements. Additionally, the stumped end of Monk’s wrist was encased in a polysynthetic cuff, surgically attached and wired into nerve bundles and muscle tendons.
Monk manipulated the titanium contacts on his wrist sheath. On the floor, the disembodied hand lifted onto its fingertips, powered wirelessly from the controls in the sheath. The prosthetic hand might be the brawn, but the wrist cuff was its brain. Monk directed the hand back to the couch, picked it up, and reattached it to his wrist. He flexed his fingers.
“It still chafes,” he mumbled.
Kat began to turn toward the kitchen, but Monk patted the seat next to him. Kat sighed again and joined him. Monk pulled her closer, catching a whiff of her hair and the scent of jasmine. She leaned into him. They sat quietly together. Penelope dozed off, a fist curled to her lips. It was nice to hold his entire family in a single embrace.
Kat finally spoke, softly and gently. “Sorry about Italy.”
Monk rolled his eyes. He hadn’t said a word about the matter to her. It was a touchy subject between them. But he should’ve known she would find out. With all her contacts in the intelligence communities, it was hard to keep any secrets from her.
She turned to face him. He recognized the play of mixed emotions in the soft concern of her eyes and the worried line of her lips. She knew how much he wanted to get back out into the
Rachel’s skin went cold. Someone was in her apartment.
Swearing under her breath, she backed away. She had no weapon. She considered knocking on Mrs. Rosselli’s door, getting out of the hallway, but the garlic already stung her nose. Inside the old woman’s cramped apartment, the fumes would be blinding. Instead, she reached into a pocket and pulled out her cell phone.
She retreated to the stairwell door and shoved through it, keeping an eye on her door. As she stepped onto the landing, something cold pressed against the bare nape of her neck.
She recognized the barrel of a pistol.
A hard voice confirmed the threat. “Don’t move.”
4
October 10, 3:28 P.M.
Rockville, Maryland
Monk bounced his baby girl on his knee. Penelope squealed, wearing a goofy smile that plainly came from her father. Luckily that’s all she got from him. Her light auburn curls and delicate features were all from her mother.
“Monk, if you make her spit up …!”
Kat crossed out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. She still wore her dress blues. She had come back from Capitol Hill an hour ago, where she’d been canvassing some former intelligence contacts on behalf of Sigma, helping Painter Crowe shore up some political breeches. Her only concession to being home was to unpin her hair and let its full cascade drape below her shoulders.
Monk remained in his sweatpants and T-shirt. Since dropping Gray off at the airport, he’d come straight back to their new home in the Maryland suburbs. What else was there to do? He knew Gray had gone to bat for him, tried to get him on board for the investigation in Italy. But that had been a wash.
He shifted the baby onto his lap.
“I have her bottle warmed up,” Kat said, heading toward him with her arms out to take Penelope. She suddenly tripped, hopped a step, and caught her balance. She stared down at the floor. “Monk, how many times have I told you not to leave your hand just lying around?”
Monk rubbed the stub of his wrist. “The new prosthetic still chafes.”
Kat sighed heavily and took Penelope. “Do you know how much one of those costs?”
Monk shrugged. The DARPA-designed prosthetic was a marvel of bioengineering, incorporating the latest in mechanics and actuators, allowing sensory feedback and surgically precise movements. Additionally, the stumped end of Monk’s wrist was encased in a polysynthetic cuff, surgically attached and wired into nerve bundles and muscle tendons.
Monk manipulated the titanium contacts on his wrist sheath. On the floor, the disembodied hand lifted onto its fingertips, powered wirelessly from the controls in the sheath. The prosthetic hand might be the brawn, but the wrist cuff was its brain. Monk directed the hand back to the couch, picked it up, and reattached it to his wrist. He flexed his fingers.
“It still chafes,” he mumbled.
Kat began to turn toward the kitchen, but Monk patted the seat next to him. Kat sighed again and joined him. Monk pulled her closer, catching a whiff of her hair and the scent of jasmine. She leaned into him. They sat quietly together. Penelope dozed off, a fist curled to her lips. It was nice to hold his entire family in a single embrace.
Kat finally spoke, softly and gently. “Sorry about Italy.”
Monk rolled his eyes. He hadn’t said a word about the matter to her. It was a touchy subject between them. But he should’ve known she would find out. With all her contacts in the intelligence communities, it was hard to keep any secrets from her.
She turned to face him. He recognized the play of mixed emotions in the soft concern of her eyes and the worried line of her lips. She knew how much he wanted to get back out into the
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