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suspected they were just trying to get noticed.

At least Juliet Summers, his secretary, was on the ball. She had a pot of coffee ready as Ray strode through reception to Summers's tiny private domain, and his office beyond. Summers, adopted out of Korea as an infant, had parlayed a job as a production assistant on American Hero into a SCARE position. A holdover from Callendar's regime, she was efficient, hardworking, and quite reliable. Cute, in a waifish way, only five feet tall and petite all over, with short bobbed hair and dark, intent eyes. She wore expensive business suits and always looked immaculate, even at four in the morning. If she'd been a man Ray would have asked her the name of her tailor. The tattoos flashing over her skin sometimes repelled, sometimes intrigued him. He often wondered what she looked like naked, but that was not an uncommon thought for Ray to have about an attractive woman. He was pretty sure she was hot for him, but he wasn't about to mess around with that. Good secretaries were harder to find than one-night stands. She followed him into his office and closed the door on the chaos behind. Inside, it was quiet and neat, just like Ray liked.

"Talk to me, Ink," he said. She handed him a steaming mug of coffee as he perched on the edge of his desk. Its spotless surface was marred only by a basket with a neatly stacked pile of memoranda that Ray was supposed to have read.

"We're still trying to sort out exactly what happened. The reports from BICC have been confusing. We know there was a riot. Casualties. We know some of the detainees escaped."

"Shit. Names?"

"Sharky. The Racist. Genetrix - "

"She was a trusty," Ray said, outraged.

"Now she's an escapee." Ink paused. Ray sensed more bad news coming. "Drake Thomas."

"Son of a bitch." As SCARE director he'd been privy to the memo on the kid they'd dubbed Little Fat Boy, and he had read it. Drake's escape was about the worst news imaginable. Chumps like Sharky and the Racist were small change in the wild card world. Sure, they were murderous thugs, but murderous thugs were a penny a dozen. Kids who caused nuclear explosions were rather more unique. In fact, there was already a signed termination order in case the kid ever did slip his leash. Ray didn't like the thought of taking down kids, but Drake had already accounted for Pyote, Texas. What if he'd let loose in El Paso or, say, a city that someone would actually miss? They had to find him, fast.

Ray rubbed his face, thinking. "Do they know up the chain yet?"

"AG Rodham's waiting for your report."

"Son of a bitch," Ray said again. Knowing his boss, she'd blame him for the fuckup even though he'd been thousands of miles away and it was probably all that asshole Justice's fault. Rodham was a treacherous bitch, and ambitious as hell. To her, AG was just a springboard to a higher position. She hadn't been in favor of Ray's appointment as SCARE director, and Ray knew why. She was jealous of his press, which, of course, was ironic. He'd never in his life sought out the media. It just found him. He couldn't help it if he was colorful. Rodham, on the other hand, lived for publicity. Lusted for it. Probably why she'd never married. She couldn't stand to share the spotlight with anyone, and she'd be very happy to get rid of Ray and replace him with another bland asshole like Callendar.

Yeah, he thought, and what's your excuse? For a second he didn't know what he was thinking about, and then it hit him. She'd never been far from his mind since she'd left, but thoughts of the Angel intruding on business time were unproductive. Even dangerous. It didn't help that he had no real answer for that son of a bitch in his head asking these stupid questions. She's gone, asshole, he told him. Deal with it. I've got Rodham to deal with. She'd use this sorry mess as another excuse to chew on his ass. She was already on him to fly to Hollywood to recruit promising contestants from the second season of American Hero. Promising. Yeah. He'd seen their dossiers. Buffalo Gal. Eight feet tall, horny, hairy, and humped. Fucking great. Or maybe Professor Polka and his frigging accordion. One bullet in the bellows and the dancing would stop, wouldn't it? Christ. Well, he wasn't