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rubber tiles of a floor he recently cleaned, waxed, and polished.
    2. Subdue Custodian.
    Roland turns up the volume and grins to himself as Sabbath bruises his eardrums. So far so good.
    6. Eva The Diva
    The sun has barely cracked the horizon in Conklin County, Colorado. Dawn oozing up over the eastern edge of the mountains like a tremulous egg yolk charged with blood. Blood is on the mind of Ruler Weems, who has been wide-awake and manning his operations desk for many hours. His work hampered by the fact that he dare not use cell, e-mail, or text in the certain knowledge that his adversaries—mostly notably the Ruler security chief, Bagrat Kavashi—have broken his personal cipher and are monitoring all electronic communication coming from the Bunker.
    All of which makes it difficult to marshal his forces, keep them informed. Difficult but not impossible. Back in the day, when Rulers were few, none of those media existed, and yet still he helped build an enterprise whose power and influence extended from Wall Street to the upper echelons of government. And now the entire organization is in grave danger. The county, the village, the institute itself—everything he’s helped forge, build, and create could be destroyed by the willful actions of one woman, in league with her ruthless security chief.
    Weems rises from his command post, goes to the window slit, allows himself to be bathed by the slash of sunlight pouring through the two-foot thickness of the concrete bunker. He has many flaws, but physical vanity is not among them—he’s keenly aware of a homeliness that has not improved with age. At sixty-three his hatchet nose, wattled throat, and severe underbite make him look like an old tortoise without a shell. The curvature of his upper spine, naturally drooping shoulders, and dark, deep-set eyes add to the effect.
    Long ago he accepted his ugliness, learned how to use it to his advantage. Blessed with a resonant voice, he honed his speaking abilities, perfected his courtly good manners, his natural deference. So that, despite an aspect that can make people cringe at first sight, he tends to make a favorable impression in the long run. Those who offer loyalty are always rewarded. Those who misjudge him do so at their peril.
    The woman has misjudged him. But that doesn’t mean she’s not exceedingly dangerous, that the inevitable implosion of her ambition might not be powerful enough to destroy all those around her, the innocent and the guilty alike.
    Behind him a vault door slides open.
    “Evangeline,” he says without turning.
    “You rang, sir?”
    His tortoise head swivels, dewlaps quivering.
    “That’s a joke, Wendall,” she informs him. “ The Addams Family, I think. That makes you Lurch the butler. Take away his chin, there’s a distinct resemblance.”
    Weems happens to know she just turned fifty-five, although you’d never know it. The miracles of nip and tuck, priceless ointments, personal trainers, and a low-calorie diet composed, from what he can see, of little more than twigs. Twigs and malice, for never has he known a woman who harbors so many self-sustaining resentments. Her blood must be acid by now, and her eyes, still large and beautiful and hopelessly compelling despite surgical tightening, have, at a closer examination, the sheen of cold anthracite. Animal eyes peering out through a lovely human mask.
    She plops down in his chair, smiling as she takes possession. “Kind a Star Trek thing you’ve got going here,” she observes. “‘Ruler Weems on the bridge, sir!’”
    “You seem to have vintage television shows on your mind,” he says. “TV will rot your brain, Eva. It may already have done so, if what I hear is true.”
    The smile chills.
    “You’ve put us all in danger,” he says. “Terrible, destructive, senseless danger. Are you crazy?”
    The smile stays frozen, but the beautiful eyes areamused. “You know what, Wendall?” she says, somehow swiveling her hips and the