"There has to be some other way!" Jarrod snapped, glaring at the venerable old man from Dark Watch.

Jonathan shifted his position in the buttery soft leather wing chair and stared at the Dark Watch agent who was pacing the length of the Devereaux library in angry strides.

Anne stepped in front of him to halt his progress. He almost ran her over.

"Easy, Jarrod. Easy," she said, smiling as she mimicked his words to her earlier in the evening. "Let’s get all the details from Jonathan BEFORE we kill him!"

Jarrod returned her smile, in spite of his agitation.

Jonathan looked fondly at the pair. He’d rarely had the privilege to work with agents so calm in the face of danger as Anne and Jarrod. Nor so balanced in perspective.

"You assume I was joking, old man?" she said to him.

He shook his head. "I never assume anything when it comes to you and Jarrod. You’re both too dangerous to dismiss that easily." He sobered, and studied them intently. "I need the two of you in there. Tonight. Or rather, before daybreak."

Anne flung herself into a chair, feeling the lateness of the hour. It had been a long evening. The Governor’s Ball, and supper had extended late into the night. And that was hours ago. Now, she and Jarrod were asked to assume a volatile assignment while they were both dangerously fatigued.

"We jump at the word of a rogue agent?" Jarrod asked. "Again, I say, there has to be some other way."

"What happened to him, Jonathan?" she asked. "Rooney was one of the most efficient agents Dark Watch has had. He’s been with us since the beginning of the war. Now, you’re telling me he’s gone crazy?"

"Right off the deep end. Ranting and raving . . . makes just enough sense to be a true threat."

Anne shook her head, impatiently. "I just spoke with the man the other day. He was fine. Perfectly normal. How could he suddenly go berserk?"

"And kidnap the French Minister in the bargain? The very man he was assigned to protect?" Jarrod’s voice was exasperated, and mirrored Anne’s fatigue.

Jonathan said, "It happens. Sometimes. We’re under constant pressure. Danger. We just . . . crack. Perhaps Rooney faced down the barrel of a gun once too often. Betrayed a confidence one too many times. Who knows?"

"That’s too casual an explanation, Jonathan. Don’t insult our intelligence with it!" Jarrod’s voice was icy, filled with contempt.

Anne said to her Control, angrily. "Jarrod’s right. There’s far more to this situation than you’ve told us. Since the life of Jules Berthemy is at stake, our country’s diplomatic relationship with a foreign power in jeopardy, not to mention OUR lives on the line, since you obviously want us to go in and fish out Berthemy, I think you owe us a complete explanation."

Jonathan gave his agent a long look. He could see the calculation, the deadly intent in her eyes. She possessed a toughness hard won on the field of battle. It was a secret battle whose front line was never defined; whose enemies could bear the appearance of friends and trusted associates.

She was too young to harbor that look, he thought, feeling a sadness sweep over him. He had done that to her. They had done that to her. Lincoln and Grant, and men like Tom Barkley and Edward Devereaux. Men who had felt the need to establish a covert intelligence agency that operated outside normal channels, and was answerable only to the President. An agency that accepted only the best into its ranks. And expected far more than that from them.

Dark Watch had absorbed the entire Devereaux family into its operations. The Barkleys had been spared a similar fate due to the efforts of Tom Barkley, who had seen the high price the Devereaux’s had been asked to pay for their involvement. He’d been unable to spare his oldest son, but had kept his wife and other two children from the deadly knowledge of the Dark Watch.

Now, Jonathan shook his head slightly, and forced his thoughts back to the issue at hand. He said, slowly. "As usual, you are both correct. There is a story behind Rooney’s actions. And you should know what it is." He sighed, and dropped his head into a cupped hand, pondering how to proceed. How to tell them without hurting them.

He straightened, and took a deep breath. "As you know, Lincoln was furious with Napoleon III when his troops entered Mexico during the war and helped to overthrow Juarez."

"HELPED to overthrow Juarez?" Jarrod said, caustically. "Isn’t that a bit of an understatement, old man? His men single-handedly placed Maximilian in power, proclaiming him Emperor of Mexico."

Jonathan smiled faintly. "Yes, well that point will always be contended. But, we can all agree that Maximilian was the puppet of European powers who supported the Confederacy and wanted to see Lincoln lose the war. Mexico would have been their base of operations on this continent, and Lincoln saw this as a direct threat to our nation."

"Indeed it was," Anne nodded. "France and others wanted to suppress all republican regimes in the New World, of which the United States was key. They wanted nothing less than the gradual reintroduction of monarchic government, here. Maximilian was key to this movement."

"Which is why Dark Watch was sent into Mexico to sabotage Maximilian." Jonathan paused, and looked closely at Anne. "You and Jarrod were to be sent into Mexico, to lead that effort, Anne. But, before orders were issued, you . . . disappeared."

Anne turned away from him, and took a ragged breath. Jarrod reached out to her, and placed a bracing hand against her back.

Jonathan said, softly. "Sorry to bring up a painful subject, but, it is relevant to the situation at hand. You see, with you gone, and Jarrod given time away from the Watch to track you, we sent Rooney into Mexico to do the job with Maximilian. "

He paused, aware of the stifling tension in the air, giving Anne time to compose herself.

"Go on," she hissed.

"It turns out that Rooney had quite a time of it in Mexico. Seems he fell in love with a beautiful seniorita, and they were married."

Jarrod gave him a swift look. "You didn’t know this?"

He shook his head. "No. Not until Rooney told me, tonight. The young woman met with a tragic end. She was bayoneted by a French soldier during a bloody skirmish outside Mexico City. She died in Rooney’s arms. And Rooney returned to this country an angry man, intent upon avenging his wife’s death. The odd thing is, while he detests the French because of what happened . . . "

"He holds Anne and me responsible," Jarrod finished.

"Just so. He knew he was only given the assignment in Mexico because of Anne’s situation." Jonathan paused, then went on. "I didn’t know any of this until today. You must believe me. On the surface, he seemed fully capably of handling the assignment. And I gave it to him without a second’s thought. He was seasoned, plenty of experience commanding teams charged with protecting high profile officials."

"Bloody hell, Jonathan," Anne said, coldly. "HE asked for the assignment. I remember him doing so. Didn’t you think that odd?"

He caught the expression of anger that flashed across Jarrod’s face.

"Damn it, Jonathan!" he exploded. "That’s just not good enough!"

"That’s all I have, Jarrod," the Control said calmly. "Hindsight is always clear. And we’re wasting valuable time talking about it. The fact is, he has Berthemy at gunpoint. I saw this with my own eyes. He has a complement of hired guns stupid and greedy enough to follow his orders. I also saw them. I tell you, he’s gone off the deep end, half the time not making any sense at all. The only thing he’s made clear is that he’s planning to execute Berthemy at sunrise. Unless - -."

"Good God!" Jarrod breathed, staring at Jonathan with burning eyes. "You want Anne and I to turn ourselves over to him."

"That’s one of his demands. Yes."

"What else does he want?" Anne’s voice was like a bullet aimed at the heart of him.

"He wants the two of you to go in there, alone."

"Commit suicide, you mean," she said sarcastically. Anne fired another question at her Control. "How many men does he have with him?"

"I saw ten."

Jarrod nodded. "And they’re probably more you didn’t see."

Anne’s voice was impersonal. Hard. "Doesn’t matter how many of them there are, you know. One good shot from a sniper’s rifle, is all it would take to shut him down, Jonathan. Either Jarrod or I could take Rooney out from a considerable distance - - ." Anne’s voice trailed off. Then, she added, "But then, he knows that we’re capable of that action. He could have taken precautions against it. And we’d lose Berthemy."

Jonathan nodded. "I’m afraid he’s holding the cards, Anne. He’s given you little room to maneuver."

"So let me see if I have this correct," she said. "He says we are to have no back up. That must mean, no weapons either."

Jonathan nodded.

Jarrod’s voice was harsh, acid scorching the charged air in the library. "Just the two of us. And Rooney. With Berthemy in the middle."

Jonathan said, "He says he will free the Minister once you and Anne arrive."

"But, he’s crazy as a loon, so we can’t really believe a word coming out of his mouth. Can we?" asked Jarrod, sharply.

Jonathan shook his head.

"Did our old friend, Rooney, provide any hints about what he has in store for us?" asked Anne.

Again, Jonathan shook his head.

Jarrod and Anne exchanged long looks.

"Lovely," said Jarrod. "Just lovely."

"There are ways around his constrictions," Anne said, softly, her eyes pinned on Jarrod’s face. "Ways we can protect ourselves and still get to him."

"Of course. There always are," Jarrod snapped. He took a deep breath. "Damn! We really don’t have a choice, do we? If anything happens to Berthemy - - ."

"Wars have been sparked over lesser offenses," said Jonathan, relieved that the pair of agents was beginning to think tactically, rather than emotionally.

Barkley and Devereaux were powerful, efficient agents when they operated separately. But, as a team . . . they were one of the most effective weapons the Government had. Still, their emotional involvement was a blessing and a curse. It gave them an uncanny ability to communicate and cooperate; it also required them to put aside their emotional ties when faced with danger; when forced to put the other in harm’s way. So far, they had always been able to do this with chilling objectivity and detachment, when the mission required it. At considerable cost to each of them, he was sure.

So far.

He went on, "I won’t lie to you. This is a matter with international implications. Relations with France have been very tenuous since Napoleon III’s rampage in Mexico during the War. But Grant believes it’s time to get past all that. Part of leaving the war, and France’s blatant support of the Confederacy behind. He’s taking heat for that stand, as you well know. And now, with war about to break out between France and Prussia, he is intent upon holding a neutral position. A stance that will be increasingly difficult for him to maintain in light of heavy public support for Germany. To have the French Minister assassinated would cause his own foreign policy to blow up in his face. And make him look like the fool."

"God knows, he doesn’t need help in that department," said Jarrod.

"Look - - " Jonathan looked at the two agents, pleading. "I don’t know what you’re going to face in there. I . . . well, you’re on your own. I leave this to the both of you to set up. Get Berthemy to me. Safe. Then, Rooney is yours. As for his men - - ."

"They’ll fall like a house of cards once Rooney goes down," said Jarrod, coldly.

The abandoned warehouse was dark. Deserted. A forlorn, rambling inky form set against the gray vastness of the Pacific Ocean. Anne cast a worried eye at the cloudy sky. Sunrise was only forty minutes away. They had very little time to put their plan into action.

It had taken longer to place their screen of men around the area than they’d thought. It had been tough. Tough to place the men so that a seasoned agent like Rooney wouldn’t detect them. Tough because she and Jarrod were bone tired, and not functioning as efficiently as they would have, normally.

Jarrod reined in his horse next to Anne, and shifted in the saddle until he could see her in the murky night. They were a few blocks away from their target, in an alley behind a row of warehouses similar in construction and condition to the designated meeting place. Protected from the view of Rooney’s lookout by the crumbling buildings, themselves.

A trio of rats skittered across the alley in front of them, causing their horses to sidle, whinny nervously. The agents from Dark Watch brought them back under control with little effort.

"We’ve taken out four of his men, thus far." Anne’s voice was deceptively casual. In fact, she was worried. Rooney had set up an unusually elaborate and large defense network. It spoke to his determination. To his skill. To the fact that he was crazy like a fox.

"Everything about this reeks of a set-up," Jarrod said, softly. "Everything."

Anne nodded. "So obvious. Maybe, too obvious?" She turned to look at him. She was aware of movement behind them. The men of Dark Watch were restless, awaiting their instructions. She held up a cautioning hand, signaling them to stand down. And wait.

"You’re prepared with your personal arsenal?" Jarrod asked her.

"Yes. All my trinkets are in place. And you?"

"Of course. Let’s be thankful for small favors. Rooney’s never worked with either one of us on assignment. He doesn’t know about all our . . . little tricks."

"Yes. But he’s a man who does his research," Anne said.

"Lady Anne! Jarrod!"

The pair turned to the Dark Watch agent known as Coates, who had ridden up behind them. He was one of Anne’s men. A former trainer in the Devereaux Stables. A trusted associated, and valuable friend who had worked with her since the early days of the war.

"We’ve spotted Berthemy in there. One of my men got a real good look at him through a broken skylight in the ceiling of that mausoleum." He paused.

"He’s alive?" Anne’s voice was impatient.

"Yes, My Lady. But it’s going to be impossible to get at him without bringing Rooney down, first. Rooney’s got him hog-tied and stuffed in a corner with a phalanx of men around him. They ain’t goin’ budge without one fierce fire fight."

"Can’t happen," broke in Jarrod. "We can’t risk getting Berthemy hit in that kind of mess."

"Your man couldn’t target him? Get a clear shot from above?" asked Anne.

"No way. It’s a pile of men in there around him." Coates paused. "Like I said, the two of you’re going to have to get Rooney. His men will fold, once he’s out of the picture."

"Paid thugs?" said Anne. "I thought I recognized two of them . . .."

"Oh, yes, My Lady. They’re men with no scruples what so ever. Available to the highest bidder. You know the type."

"Well, we’ll just have to make them an offer they can’t refuse," said Jarrod, softly, his blue eyes glittering in a patch of moonlight unveiled by a fast-moving cloud.

Anne looked at him sharply. "It’s down to you and me, my love."

Jarrod inclined his head to her. "Just as it should be."

They sought out each other, then. Drawing strength from the other, and returning it even stronger, bolstered by the fire and spirit of their shared love. It was that unshakable core that existed between them that had always given them the advantage. Was their any reason to

think that this night should be different from any other?

They were quiet, calm, acknowledging that this situation was, indeed, different. Because, this time, their adversary was not operating from any known set of ground rules. This time, the enemy was crazy as a loon. As volatile and deadly as a jostled glass tube of nitro.

"We should go," Anne said, softly. "We have the performance of our lives to enact."

Jarrod nodded.

Side by side, they urged their horses into a quick walk, and left the cover of the buildings. They deliberately placed themselves out into the open, on a straight course for the warehouse. With erect backs, ice cold eyes, and merciless intent, they were ready to prevail over whatever Rooney had planned for them.

The warehouse loomed over them as Jarrod and Anne approached it. With each stride of their horses it became larger. Darker. More menacing. Calmly, the pair kept their mounts tightly collected as they rode straight for the main entrance. They knew Rooney’s men were watching them from the building. They had to play by Rooney’s rules, at least for now.

Neither spoke. They didn’t have to. They knew what was in the other’s mind.

Their eyes scanned the area through the dim light, scrutinizing each shadow, aware of every movement around them. The pattern of black and gray shifted, ebbed and flowed, as Rooney’s men surrounded them, accompanying them to the threshold of the warehouse.

"Off yer horses," spat a coarse voice behind them.

"Now!" snarled a second voice.

Without a word, nor a glance at each other, Anne and Jarrod dismounted and waited.

Air thick with waves of fog rolled in off the ocean, pressing down upon them. Moist and heavy, suffocating, it was permeated with the stench of rotting fish, seaweed, human sweat.

And gut-wrenching tension so thick and real you could bite into it.

No sound could be heard but the heavy breathing belonging to the voices, and the dull lapping of waves against the stone foundation of the warehouse.

The pair from Dark Watch waited, calmly. Gathering what energy and strength they possessed, marshalling their steely nerves and grit, they wrapped themselves inside it all as if they were donning protective cloaks. It represented their only true advantage in the volatile situation confronting them.

After a minute, they heard movement in front of them as a heavy metal door, battered and dented, shrieked and groaned and protested with every inch as it swung open on rusted hinges. Framed in the doorway, barely discernable in the dim, smoky light, was Rooney.

Jarrod swung piercing eyes away from the pair of men slouched just inside the door, and struggled to control his facial expression as a blazing lantern hanging from a crumbling wooden post illuminated the figure of his associate and friend.

He was shocked at what he saw. In just a few hours, a dapper, well-groomed man - - a disciplined professional - - had been transformed into someone Jarrod did not recognize.

Rooney’s clear brown eyes had sunken into their sockets until they appeared to be two black orbs without focus or perspective. His hair was wild and unkempt. A sensitive mouth was taut and distorted with rage. A ramrod-straight soldierly bearing was twisted and bent.

But it was the wildness of his overall demeanor that sent shivers down Jarrod’s spine. A feral craziness that reflected a man no longer in touch with reason.

How long had this delusional savage inhabited Rooney’s body?

It was to Anne that Rooney first spoke in a raspy, uneven cadence.

"Ah, the beautiful Lady Devereaux. You are so very welcome." He sketched a mocking bow in Anne’s direction. As he straightened, his wild eyes, blazing with feverish excitement, raked over her. "I see you’ve changed out of your finery. Dressed for business. Always the professional." He turned, and bowed slightly to Jarrod. "And you, also, sir. Professional to the very tips of your well-manicured fingers. Such a pleasure to see you both."

He paused, studying them closely. "Yes, professional to the bone, the two of you are. Jefferies! Adam!" He addressed the pair of thugs standing behind them. "Watch and learn, men! You have two of the President’s finest before you. Accord them the respect they deserve. Perhaps you’ll even learn a thing or two from them." Rooney smiled graciously, and began to move away from them. Suddenly, he turned back with a vicious look on his face and snarled, "Search them! And look alive, men! They’re tricky. God knows what they’ll try to pull."

Anne and Jarrod stood passively quiet, allowing the rough hands of the paid thugs to search their clothes.

The man known as Jefferies lingered in front of Anne, his eyes leering, his hands grasping at her. He was breathing heavily, blanketing her with hot, garlic-laced air that threatened to suffocate her.

Anne gritted her teeth, and swallowed a few times, willing away the nausea that rose in her throat. She forced herself to remain impassive as his filthy hands rifled through her riding habit, touching her in unspeakably intimate ways. She would not react to the man’s insults. And while the thought of snapping his neck like a twig did fill her with great pleasure, now was not the time to show her hand, and she knew it.

But, it was not her own reaction that concerned her the most. She glanced over at Jarrod, aware that he was tense and ready to spring to her defense. She gave him a hard look, silently asking him to remain calm, and do nothing.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. A nerve twitched and danced along the steely surface of his jaw - - the only visible sign of his fury.

"We’re done," snarled the man standing by Jarrod. He glared jealously at his companion who had assumed the enviable task of searching the beautiful young woman. Time to cut his enjoyment short. "Nothin’ on ‘em," he added, ignoring the angry look Jefferies flashed him.

Rooney turned back. "You’re certain?"

The pair nodded, and stepped back into place behind the agents from Dark Watch.

Rooney hesitated, obviously uncertain whether or not to accept the men’s opinions. Then, with mocking gentility, he gestured towards the murky interior of the warehouse with a grand sweep of an arm. "Well then, please, do come in. I’ve . . . been expecting you, after all." He threw back his head and howled in laughter; it was a mirthless sound. It was the echo of a wild animal in pain. Furious.

Trapped in its own craziness.

Anne stepped forward, Jarrod at her side. Their guards were close behind them, their guns pressed into the small of the agents’ backs.

The entourage entered the warehouse.

Jarrod swept the cavenerous building with calculating eyes, barely allowing his eyes time to adjust to the deep gloom of the place. The interior was one huge room rising two stories to the roof, with support columns placed throughout. It appeared empty, and was heavily shrouded in shadows, the only light coming from the occasional lantern hanging from the columns.

Glancing up, Jarrod could just make out the outline of skylights in the ceiling directly overhead. The light was too dim to discern how many other such openings existed in the roof.

Movement at his right side caught his attention, and he scrutinized the shadows for a moment before he made out the form of Jules Berthemy. The French Minister was bound and gagged. And surrounded by four armed men. He strained to get a clearer look at the diplomat. The Frenchman looked unharmed. But even in the dim light, Jarrod could see that his eyes were wild and brimming over with terror.

Behind Berthemy, Jarrod saw that there was a door. And, as the Government agent watched, it swung open and a pair of Rooney’s men filled the space, standing at attention, guns at the ready.

He glanced at Anne, then. She was also studying the situation, getting her feel for the surroundings. She caught his eye. Calm and sure, she smiled at him.

The pair guarding them pushed them forward roughly. Anne stumbled on a loose floorboard, but managed to remain on her feet. Instinctively, Jarrod reached out to her. And felt the butt of a rifle slam into his side. He gritted his teeth against the sudden pain, and turned to glare at the thug.

"Oh, now, Jarrod. Don’t take it personally," soothed Rooney, his voice syrupy and mocking. "It’s not that we don’t like you. It’s just that . . . well, I didn’t have time to give my men etiquette lessons before you and the good lady arrived." He grinned wildly at the pair, and began to laugh. "That’s what I should have done . . . planned a formal reception for you. With an orchestra, and waiters, and bottles of champagne. Just like the event we attended earlier this evening. Of course, you’ll have to wait for your main course." He laughed uncontrollably, tears rolling down his face as his sputtered, "’Of course’ . . ‘your course.’ ‘Course’ . . . God! That’s great!" Abruptly, he stopped laughing and snarled. "We all know what the main course will be." He towered over Anne. "Don’t we, MY LADY? The main course?"

Anne calmly met his crazed, burning eyes. "I don’t know, Rooney." Her voice was low, steady. "You tell me."

"The main course, Barkley?"

Jarrod did not respond.

Rooney sighed. "For two of Jonathan’s best, you disappoint me, I must tell you. The main course will be your execution. And Berthemy’s death will be . . . let’s see . . . dessert, I think. Or perhaps I should make him the appetizer and - - . Oh, well, I’ll just have to improvise, I suppose."

"Do you have any idea what the penalty is for murdering a foreign diplomat, Rooney? Not to mention, government officers?" Jarrod asked in an impersonal voice. "But then, of course you do. You used to be one of us. So, you know that you’ll have a death penalty hanging over your head should you act out this crazy stunt."

Anne smiled, slightly, as she acknowledged his strategy. Jarrod’s demeanor was casual, off-handed, as if he was consulting with a client in the peace and tranquility of his law office.

Rooney had no idea what was coming.

Jarrod’s penetrating blue eyes swept over the faces of the hired thugs. "Even your friends, here, face serious consequences for helping you. Did they know that? Life sentences all around. Possibly the death penalty if their direct involvement can be proven." He smiled as he watched Rooney’s motley group of mercenaries react to his words. They had no idea the trouble they were in. He added, softly. "I’m a lawyer, you understand. I know about these things. I’d take my words very seriously, if I were you." He paused. "Oh, and just so you know. This place is surrounded by government agents.

So, even if Lady Devereaux and I are killed, there are others who will make certain that you pay for your crimes."

"You’re lying!" screeched Rooney. To his men, he said, "Don’t listen to this man! He’s lying, I tell you!"

Jarrod went on, addressing Rooney’s men. "Now, if you were to lay down your arms, before any blood is shed, those Government men out there would . . . probably not even see you walk past them. They’d be too busy . . . looking the other way. Perhaps even pretending this nasty little interlude never happened."

"SHUT UP!" screamed Rooney.

Jarrod continued as if he hadn’t heard the rogue agent.

"By the way, how much is he paying you to risk your lives?" His eyes were like bullets, seeking out each man in turn. "Is it enough? Are you sure he’s good for it?"

Anne had been watched the men closely. She had seen a number of them shifting restlessly, clearly ill at ease at Jarrod talked. His words were penetrating their tough shells. He was weakening their resolve, forcing them to second-guess their involvement with Rooney.

She spoke up. "Rooney doesn’t have any money to pay them," she said to Jarrod. Then, looked around the room at the men, and addressed them, an expression of mock surprise on her face. "Oh, you didn’t know that he’s dirt poor? I’m afraid so. Poor as a church mouse."

Jarrod nodded. "Very true. So, let’s summarize. He’s asking you to risk your life, your freedom. For . . . . nothing!" Out of the corner of his eyes, Jarrod saw the two men who had guarded the main entrance to the warehouse, quietly leave their posts, and disappear into the thin dawn light.

"STOP IT!" Rooney shrieked at Jarrod. "It won’t work. You won’t turn them. They’re loyal to me. And my cause."

"Your cause?" snapped Anne. "Kidnapping defenseless men? Mindlessly threatening diplomatic relations with France? You call that a cause?"

"We have no business recognizing France!" Rooney snarled. "Not after what they did to us! But then, you wouldn’t understand that, would you? Damn

your smooth-tongued souls to eternal hell!" Suddenly, he was quiet, and he raked his wild hair with shaking hands. "I should have killed you both, before. God know, I’ve had opportunities. So many opportunities." Spittle spurted from the corners of his mouth, and ran down his chin. "Even tonight,

at the Ball. The two of you on that balcony. All alone. So . . . so . . .." He gasped for air. "So much in love. Damn your souls to hell, I say!"

"I think your soul is the one we should worry about," Anne said, quietly.

Rooney turned on her with blazing eyes. "I have no soul, MY LADY," he snarled. "She was killed outside Mexico City, years ago. At the end of a bayonet. Do you have any idea what it’s like to die that way? To bleed to death in the most excruciating pain you could possibly imagine? And as for

hell, I’ve been there. Every minute of every day since then." He swiped at his mouth with a quivering hand, and began to pace in front of the agent in quick, agitated strides. He was mumbling under his breath, shaking his head as he moved.

Suddenly, he stopped and faced the pair from Dark Watch. Now, his face was unnaturally calm. When he spoke, his voice was soft and impersonal.

"The two of you killed her, you know. As surely as if you’d taken that bayonet and thrust it into her gut with your own hands."

Jarrod shook his head. "You know that’s not so, Rooney."

Rooney ignored him. Instead, the rogue agent reached out, and grabbing Anne’s arm, pulled her to him. Keeping an iron grasp on her, he hissed in her face, "So, where in the hell were you, anyway? Back then? Nowhere to be seen when that assignment to Mexico came up. This is your fault, you

know. You can’t just walk out on Dark Watch in the middle of a war!" His voice grew louder, until he was shrieking, again. "What happened to you?

WHERE WERE YOU?"

Anne closed her eyes against the question. And didn’t answer.

"It should have been your stomach ripped to shreds by cold steel." His spittle sprayed her face. He shook her roughly. "Look at me!"

Slowly she opened her eyes, and did as he demanded.

Rooney examined the expression in her eyes for a long moment, then whistled softly. "Well, well, well. I think I’ve finally found the Achilles’ heel of the toughest woman I’ve ever had the misery to know. Haven’t I, Anne? So, what happened to you, back then? Yes, yes, it was something very bad - - I can see that in your eyes."

Anne averted her face.

Rooney pushed her back towards Jarrod, a broad smile on his face. "Yes, yes. You’ve suffered." He took in the carefully veiled expression on Jarrod’s face. "Ah, it’s like that, is it? You’ve both suffered. I’m so bloody well glad. Yes, yes, yes. That does make me feel good." He started to walk towards Berthemy. "In fact, I’m feeling so good, I think it’s time to get started with the festivities." He pulled a gun from a holster under his frock coat. "I’ve decided I want my appetizer, now."

As Rooney pressed his gun to the side of Berthemy’s head, Anne and Jarrod swung into action.

Anne flipped a small dagger from the inside of her coat sleeve and flung it threw the air with pinpoint accuracy. It neatly lodged in Rooney’s gun hand.

Rooney dropped the gun, howling in pain, and began to pull at the blade.

At the same time, Jarrod slammed into one of the two guards behind him, forcing the man to fall into the other thug. As each lost his balance and started to drop to the filthy floorboards, Jarrod deftly stripped the one of his rifle.

"I wouldn’t!" Jarrod barked to the second guard who had begun to fumble for his sidearm.

The thug looked up to see himself at one end of a rifle barrel, and a government agent with deadly intent at the other. He hesitated only a second before he placed his gun into Jarrod’s outstretched hand.

Jarrod flipped the gun to Anne, who caught it neatly, and turned back to Rooney, Berthemy, and his phalanx of guards.

Two of the four guards surrounding Berthemy had backed away from Rooney and were headed for the open door. The remaining two seemed frozen in place, confusion clearly written across their faces. Should they remain loyal to Rooney, or was the dark-haired man with the vivid blue eyes telling the truth? Had they been betrayed? Cheated? Were they heading for prison?

Rooney had begun to creep forward, reaching for his gun with his good hand.

A shot rang out. The bullet slammed into the floor, neatly bisecting the space between Rooney’s hand and his gun. He instinctively shrank away from the small explosion, and looked up to see Anne holding a firearm on him.

"Next shot will blow that hand off," she said tersely. "Your choice. Either stand down, or lose your hand."

Rooney slowly rose, cradling his bleeding hand against him, his eyes wild and crazy as he glared at the agents from Dark Watch.

"On the floor, Rooney. Over there. Face down. Legs and arms spread. You know the drill."

He complied, as the pair of guards Jarrod had disarmed, joined him on the floor in response to Jarrod’s silent orders.

Anne picked up Rooney’s gun, and advanced towards the pair of guards positioned in front of Berthemy.

"Gentlemen, it’s all over. Drop your firearms, please. And, raise your hands."

One man complied. The other suddenly raised his gun, aiming at Anne. And then collapsed to the ground with a shriek of pain, a bullet hole in his kneecap.

Anne turned to see Jarrod lower his rifle. "That should keep him occupied for a time." He gave her a grim look, and then said to the wounded man’s companion, "On the floor, next to your boss. That’s good. Oh, and you two at the door!" The two guards who had been posted at the doorway near Berthemy, turned and ran outside.

Jarrod shrugged. "Was it something I said?" He said to Anne, then turned his attention back to the men on the floor. He said to them, "Now then, anyone moves and the lady and I will be choosing which body part is blown wide open. Do you understand?"

"You won’t get away with this," sputtered Rooney into the floor. "I have more men. They’ll take you all down. And string Berthemy’s body from the highest tree!"

Jarrod said to Rooney, "Save your strength, my friend. You have long hours of interrogation facing you after they patch up your hand."

He turned back to Anne, and they exchanged quick glances. Just long enough to ascertain that each was all right.

Then, they turned away, and began to strafe the cavernous room with sharp eyes. Where were the rest of Rooney’s men? All seemed to be accounted for, either having run off into the night to be met with a tight screen of government agents, or sprawled on the floor. Those who had remained outside the warehouse would already have been placed in custody by Dark Watch.

Anne began to move towards Berthemy, preparing to untie him and get him to a place of safety, when she heard a sound from the nearby doorway. It was the sound of a cocking gun.

She looked up in time to see a figure shrouded in shadows on the threshold. And then, she heard a familiar voice.

"Well, well, well, You two are good, I’ll give you that. My dear Lady Devereaux and Mr. Barkley. My dear old friends. Drop your guns, now, or I will blow Monsieur Berthemy’s head off as surely as I am standing here."

As the pair from Dark Watch complied with the order, the figure stepped into the room and confronted them.

Anne and Jarrod looked into the face of Julia Saxon.

Julia Saxon entered the warehouse in the dim light of dawn; gun in hand, four men at her heels. She turned back to them, tossing quick orders over her shoulder.

"Tie up Rooney next to Berthemy, over there. Gag him, too. I don’t want to listen to his sniveling. This is my show, now. And get his idiots out of here! Leave them for the Government men to find." She paused, looking at the man Jarrod had shot. "This one will need medical attention." She shrugged. "Well, he’s their problem." She turned back to her men. "After you’ve dumped them off, I want you out of here until I call for you. Oh, and try not to get captured while you’re waiting. This place is crawling with agents. Stay clear until you hear my signal."

As Julia talked to the men, Jarrod studied her, unable to conceal his surprise at seeing her. Julia Saxon. After their last encounter in Stockton the year before, he had never expected to meet up with her, again. A painful interlude, it had been. For many reasons . . ..

She had come to him, placing herself at risk in so doing. She’d entered enemy territory, where her name was reviled, her presence resented. She’d even been framed for murder. Jarrod and his brothers had proven her innocence, and Jarrod had made the necessary legal maneuvers to close the case against her. But, while he had given her freedom, he had not presented her with the one thing she most wanted from him - - a wedding ring. Certainly, she’d made her desire for him known. But then, she had always wanted him. At one time, she’d thought she’d had him. During the war. Truth was, he had never been hers. And never would be. Anne was his life. His heart.

His soul.

Julia had always been a pawn of Dark Watch. Nothing more than a cog in a huge wheel that runs over anyone and anything in its path. And she’d never known. How he and Anne had used her. Fed her disinformation during the war. Used her loyalty to the Confederacy, her consummate acting ability, against her. She’d thought she was the one who had done the using. Even seemed to feel guilty about it, begging his forgiveness.

He had said goodbye to her, back in Stockton, a year ago. Hoping he would never have to see her, again.

Of course, he had known that she was still a Confederate spy, still working for an organization of radical Southerners determined to topple the Grant Administration. Dark Watch had always kept a close eye on her after the war. Which is why he was so surprised to see her in this place. Why hadn’t Government intelligence known of her role in this Rooney situation? And, conversely, how much of Dark Watch did Julia know about, now? It was obvious she was not surprised to see Anne and him, here, in this place. How long had she known they were government agents?

Julia slunk towards him, oozing raw sexuality like a skunk sprays an unwilling world with its noxious odor. Her dyed red hair was as bright as ever, arranged in as elaborate a coiffure as ever. Her narrow eyes caressed Jarrod with their desire. From head to toe, they ran over his body as surely as if her hands had been upon him.

And then, she turned to Anne, and her eyes became slits of rage. The force and power of her hatred for this woman was a poisonous venom, designed to deliver a fatal blow. This woman, this raven-haired aristocrat, had stolen her man. And while her dreams of a lifetime with Jarrod had ended with her visit to Stockton the year before, she had never relinquished her hatred for this beautiful adversary. Now, she was prepared to do anything, everything in her power to make this woman pay for Julia’s own lonely, embittered existence. For the endless, pointless nights, when Jarrod was nothing more than a painful, faded dream that blew away like grains of dust in the early morning breeze.

Anne felt the force of Julia’s emotion, and steadied herself. She knew how dangerous this Confederate spy could be. Julia was volatile, overemotional. Undisciplined. A lethal combination when you were its target.

Anne remained silent, acknowledging the depth of the woman’s hatred for her. Knowing that anything she said could get her killed.

She wanted to look over to Jarrod. Needed the strength and protection of his brilliant blue eyes. Now, more than ever. Instinct told her to remain still. And keep her eyes on the enemy. Always keep your eyes on the enemy.

Jarrod spoke up, in a calm, lightly amused voice. "Hello, Julia. What brings you to this party?"

"You don’t seem surprised to see me, Jarrod." Julia’s voice was husky and low. Seductive. And only for him. "But then, you always were good at keeping your cards close to the vest. Aren’t you even a bit curious about why I’m here?"

"Should I be?" Jarrod’s voice was calm, steady.

Julia pouted. "Oh, Jarrod. You’re spoiling my fun. Here I went to all this trouble to lure you to this place. And you aren’t even wondering how I know about you . . .." She gestured towards Anne with a coarse, sideways flick of her head. "And her. And Dark Watch?"

"As a matter of fact, I was." Jarrod’s voice was courteous, charming. "When we last saw each other - - last year, I believe. In Stockton .. . you gave no indication - - ."

"That’s because you are so very good, Jarrod. So very, very good. I never even came close to guessing the truth about you." She smiled bitterly. "All those years I carried around the guilt of having betrayed you - - ." She raised a hand to caress the side of his face, running her long, tapered fingers around to the back of his neck. Lightly massaging him, there, she went on in a soft voice. "I should hate you for that. But then, I could never really hate you, could I?"

She grabbed at his hair, and tugged playfully.

"Six months ago, to answer my own question," she purred. "It was six months ago when I discovered your lies. Your duplicity. Imagine my shock and surprise."

Jarrod reached up and imprisoned her hand in an iron grip, slowly forcing it away from him.

"What’s this all about, Julia? What do you want?"

"Why, you, love. I’ve always wanted you."

He kept hold of her, their hands clasped between them. And as he stood there, feeling her heat, her desire, he contemplated taking her gun away from her. It would be so easy to overpower her.

As if she had read his thoughts, she whispered into his face, "Don’t even think about it, honey. I have a man just outside the door with his gun sights trained on your friend, the French Minister." She turned towards the door, and called, "Peters? Come in here, honey, so my friends can see you!"

As a tall man with long, flowing white hair entered the room, Julia said to him, "Stay there, Peters! Maybe these two will take me more seriously with you in the room." She turned back to Jarrod. "Anything happens to me, and Berthemy will be dead before I hit the floor."

Jarrod smiled broadly, his blue eyes hard and humorless. "So many make the mistake of underestimating beautiful women. By the way, have I told you how . . . incredible you look? As always. Dressed in this . . . amazing creation." He looked pointedly at the tasteless red satin gown, his eyes lingering on the low-cut neckline where her bulging bosom strained and fought at tight constraints. Insulting her with his boldness.

Julia misinterpreted his message, and smiled triumphantly. She extricated her hand from his strong grasp, and once more extended it towards him, lightly caressing his face. This time, he made no move to stop her.

"I always loved your mouth," she whispered, taking a finger and tracing the outline of his lips. "So beautiful, so sensuous . . . and skilled." Julia tossed her head towards Anne. "Does SHE know? About us? About the times we shared in your bed? So hot. So passionate."

Suddenly, Julia turned towards Anne, gloating as she studied her with narrowed eyes. "No. I’ll bet you’re too much of a gentleman to tell her about us. Isn’t he, honey? Oh! I’m sorry." Julia curtseyed mockingly to Anne. "My Lady!!"

Anne kept her eyes fixed on Julia. Knowing that the woman was baiting her. Attempting to throw her off balance. With effort, she forced down her pained jealousy. She had known about Julia and Jarrod, of course. Their involvement had played an important role in the strategy of Dark Watch during the war. Certainly, she and Jarrod had been forced to do things they had hated, things that had violated the very core values they held dear. The bloodshed . . . loss of life . . . deception . . . all in the name of the country. The greater good, their fathers had told them.

She shrugged off her troubled thoughts. Now was not the time to indulge her self-pity. She was too much a professional to fall prey to Julia’s petty tricks.

Obviously, Julia did not like what she read on Anne’s face. She left Jarrod and sashayed towards her, hips swaying, gun up and aimed at the heart of Anne.

"He’s very good, you know. In bed. Real sensitive to a woman’s needs. Gentle and tender, for a while, but when you’re ready . . . deliciously forceful and powerful. Like no other I’ve ever had, I can tell you. But then, I don’t think you know about that. Do you, honey?" Julia ran the barrel of the gun up one of Anne’s arms, up to her face, and used it to lightly caress under chin. "Unless you two had your fun before you were thrown in Jamesville Landing Prison. And even if you did, it doesn’t matter. Because, I’m certain that what my southern brothers did to you in prison, soured you from having a man touch you for the rest of your life. Even the skilled Mr. Barkley, over there. Now, isn’t that so, honey?"

Anne froze. Julia Saxon had just tossed off, in a few careless words, the core and guts of her worst nightmare. The part of her life that had paralyzed her, and nearly killed her. She’d never recovered from Jamesville Landing. Even now, years later, the pain and trauma of those months in prison were her constant companion. They would not release her from their icy grip.

Jarrod’s words were like bullets in the murky air of the abandoned warehouse. "What do you know of Anne’s incarceration, Julia?"

"Well now," Julia ran the gun barrel down Anne’s other arm. Slowly, sensuously. Vicious intent in her face as she grinned at the younger woman. "I hate to brag."

"What the hell do you know about it?" Jarrod stepped towards Julia, menacing, lethal.

"Easy, honey. Take it slow." Julia casually pointed her gun towards him. "I may love you to pieces, but I’m still prepared to kill you if you provoke me. And then, there’s always M. Berthemy, back there. I know you’d hate to see Peters kill him, after all you went through to rescue him. Of course, my people have ordered me to assassinate him, you understand. Yes, the death of the French Minister would suit our needs, right now. Any opportunity to make Grant look bad is worth pursuing. But, being the good agent I know you to be, you understand that as long as he’s breathing, you have a chance to save him. And even a slim chance is better than none. So, back away, or you’ll force me to do something we’ll both regret."

She smiled at him. "Why don’t we just relax and enjoy the moment? After all, I went through such effort to coerce our old friend, Rooney, to let me into this job. Can you believe he wanted to handle it all alone? He was hot to get at you two for his own reasons, after all. But then, I knew I could manipulate him. I’m good at that. So, without even knowing it, he fell right into my clutches." She turned to look at Rooney, a sneer pasted across her face. "A good little drone, serving his queen."

Julia stopped speaking suddenly, as if struck by inspiration. She turned back to Jarrod. "Come to think of it, there’s another way to keep you under control. Besides threatening the Minister." She looked back to Anne, and thrust the barrel of her gun in the younger woman’s direction. "How about I blow her through? If you don’t step away, and be a good boy, that is. Would that upset you, Jarrod? To see her die before your very eyes?"

Jarrod stood still, his face an impassive mask.

Julia smiled broadly. "Oh, very good, love," she cooed. "Such exquisite control you exhibit when your lady’s life is threatened. You could probably fool most with that act. But, I saw that flicker in your eyes. And I know all about those beautiful eyes of yours, don’t I just!"

Abruptly, she sobered, and walked back to Anne. Standing in front of the younger woman, she calmly surveyed her from head to toe. "What is it about this scrawny, young thing that so captivates you, anyway? So thin, so . . . cold. She certainly can’t keep your bed warm at night. Not like I can! She’s not even a whole woman any longer, are you, honey?" Julia shook her head in mock sympathy. "Yeah, my friends really broke you apart, didn’t they? A bit rougher with you than I’d intended them to be, by the way. And after I heard what had happened to you, I was just sure you’d die in there. You’re stronger than you look! Of course, you were rescued in time, weren’t you?" She curtseyed mockingly to Jarrod. "By that white knight over there!"

She sauntered back to him. "They told me you waltzed into that prison, bold as brass, and snatched her right out from under them. Literally." She grinned lewdly, then sobered, suddenly. "She was like a broken doll, wasn’t she? And, you know, I was crazy enough to think that I still had a chance with you. Thought for sure you wouldn’t want the damaged goods. That you’d want a real woman."

She turned away from the pair from Dark Watch, and sighed heavily. Sadly. "But, last year’s visit to Stockton told me otherwise. You actually still wanted her. Even I could tell that, although you never mentioned her. Not in so many words, at least."

Julia turned back to Anne. "Irony is, I didn’t even know Anne was a spy when I had her tossed into that hellhole." She shrugged. "I just wanted to get her out of the way, so I could have you to myself."

Jarrod’s face was no longer impassive. Fury had swept over him, growing in intensity, as he listened to her words. Now, he was barely able to restrain himself. His blue eyes blazed at her, his fists were clenched. "Damn you, Julia! You deserve to burn in hell for what you’ve done!"

Julia pivoted towards Anne, and cocked the gun. "You want to know why I set up this little soiree? Well, my dear, I mean to make the two of you pay for what you’ve done to me. For destroying my life, and leaving me with nothing more than fade memories to keep me warm at night." She took a deep breath. "So, here’s what’s going to happen. First, the good French Minister will meet his maker. That will destroy your noble mission. And then, Anne will join him in that great hereafter."

Julia sauntered back to Jarrod. "So she becomes nothing more than just a memory, Jarrod. A painful reminder of what could have been." She smiled sadly. "No reason why we both can’t go through our lives in misery. And, who knows? Maybe, someday, you might just get lonely enough to come around and see what’s really good for you. Meaning me, of course."

"You must be mad!" breathed Jarrod. "To think that I’d ever turn to you."

Julia went on as if he hadn’t spoken. "I rather thought I’d let her die painlessly. I’m not totally heartless, you know. However, if you keep at me like this, I can certainly make it a slow and agonizing death for her ladyship . . . .. Your choice."

Jarrod fought to bring himself under control. He had to keep Julia talking. Buy time, while he figured out what to do.

He glanced over at Anne. She hadn’t moved, nor spoken a word since Julia had begun her crazed discourse. Her eyes were hard emeralds, emotionless. Brittle. She looked frozen with shock. But, he knew her too well to think that she would remain so quiet. Not for much longer.

In fact, Anne’s anger had overcome her shock and painful memories. Now, she looked at the auburn-haired hussy before her with calculated fury. And waited for her moment to strike. It came sooner than she expected.

Suddenly, from above them, came a steady, shrill whistle. Two long notes. Then silence. It was a Dark Watch signal. With the birth of the morning, there was finally enough daylight to allow the others to act. They had taken their places.

Anne drilled hard, sharply-focused eyes into Julia Saxon, startling the older woman, demanding her attention, mesmerizing her with the sheer force of Anne’s strength of will.

She said, coldly and quietly, "You don’t even know when to lose gracefully, Julia. You didn’t possess Jarrod, back then. And whether I’m alive or dead, you never will."

Julia was motionless, staring into the deep green eyes in front of her. Rooted to the spot.

Jarrod reached out to her, and in one swift, seamless movement, pressed his thumb into the hollow behind one ear. Grinding into her flesh suddenly, and sharply.

She began to sink to her knees, exclaiming in sudden pain.

As she fell, dazed and barely conscious, he eased her descent, stripping her of her sidearm at the same time.

A rifle shot rang out from the broken skylight above. Peters was hit by a Dark Watch sharpshooter - - his shoulder bleeding profusely. But, he wasn’t immobilized, and he was a motivated Southerner who would sooner die that not fulfill his duty. He raised his gun, swinging the barrel to the side of Berthemy’s head. And then, Berthemy disappeared from his blurring view as Anne threw herself against the French Minister, knocking him clear of Peters’ gun sights. Shielding his body with her own.

A second shot rang out from above, and Peters slumped to the floor, dead.

Anne looked up from where she lay on the floor, to see Berthemy’s eyes blinking at her with terror. He was alive. Very much alive.

She felt strong hands gently take hold of her, raising her to her feet. And she was in Jarrod’s arms.

She steadied herself, and pulled away, knowing that were she to remain in the circle of his warmth and protection another minute, she would fall apart. She was afraid that if she started crying, she would never stop. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Government agents swarming around them, assuming control of the warehouse. She ignored them, her eyes focused on Jarrod.

He met her scrutiny calmly. Understanding her need for reassurance. Between them passed a stream of emotions; love, regret, forgiveness. A deepening correspondence that was untouched by the chaotic world swirling around them.

"Julia?" she whispered.

"Out of our lives, forever, my love."