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some food. Looked like PB&J until I could get back home. I scrubbed at the oil stain the mayonnaise left on my chest while I scrolled down the computer screen.
    Score ! A secure hotel—right in the middle of the city for a great price.
    “More than I have to spend, though,” I grumbled under my breath and hit “Enter.” It seemed a little cowardly, doing a vanishing act. Cowardly wasn’t how I normally viewed myself. Well, a hidden enemy was a dangerous enemy; even Spyder would probably agree this was a smart tactical move.

A few hours later, I found myself pulling into a parking space at LaGuardia Airport where the Chasm family was expected to land. I checked my watch—only twenty-five minutes. I still hadn’t made up my mind about approaching Striker. I walked around to my trunk and took out a baseball cap. Pulling the bill low over my brows, I dashed up to the news team from Channel 11 and followed behind like I belonged—they would know where to go. As the doors to the terminal slid open automatically, my heart quickened. What was I thinking? I couldn’t talk to Striker privately here, especially in front of all of these reporters. Even if I got close enough to him, I’d come off like some groupie—what did Dave call them? Badge Bunnies. Geesh. And it would be wrong for me to mention Spyder McGraw in public.
    Striker would be suspicious of my approach—why would he tell me, a stranger, where a fellow Iniquus agent went when that agent disappeared from my life in September? Would Striker even have contact? Iniquus only meted out information on a need-to-know basis. Shit. What was I doing?
    No one questioned me as I scrambled behind News 11 into the bay that was set aside for the news conference. The excitement was palpable. The extended Chasm family huddled in front of the dais, with tear-stained faces, while various report teams claimed turf and filmed teasers. I worked my way over to where I thought Strike Force would exit, figuring I would wing it based on how Striker reacted to my approach. Once I had Spyder’s contact information, I could make other decisions about if I would burden Spyder with my problem.
    A shift happened in the room. Reporters raised their microphones to their mouths as the on-air lights blinked on the video cameras. The well-dressed and highly polished reporters laid out the story line: the Chasm’s private jet had landed, and they were expected at the podium any second now. I crossed my fingers and willed that everything go exactly as it should. If I were supposed to lean on Spyder, everything would go off without a hitch, but my efforts would be thwarted if it were better to do this on my own. There. Let fate figure out my dilemma for me.
    The family burst jubilantly through the door. Their bright grins were dichotomic to the black circles under their eyes. I stared at the door. Why was the family alone? Maybe Strike Force didn’t want their images broadcast in order to preserve their anonymity. I slid along the wall to get to the door the family had entered. Hopefully, Strike Force was just on the other side, and I’d find Striker away from this circus. Just as I pushed through the door, a reporter asked about the rescue team. Graham Chasm explained that an assignment had come up, and as soon as they delivered his family safely home, the team needed to be wheels-up on another assignment.
    They were already gone.
    I spun in place. Well, thanks, fate. Looks like I’m on my own. Shit.

Four
    T he sky was a deep violet when I stepped out of my car onto the marble-paved turnabout at the hotel and tipped my head up to take in the splendor. Wow, was I out of place. This was posh beyond belief—the crystal and mahogany at the valet desk, the women prancing by draped in furs and dripping jewels. I, on the other hand, stood shivering in my pink hoody and Levis. The valet palmed the keys to my rusty Camry, and I blushed hotly as I handed him his tip. My car wheezed and coughed as she