Prologue

The Akbiquestan Desert

Chiron Prison sat atop a large outcropping at three thousand feet with a commanding view of the rust-colored, rock-strewn desert of Akbiquestan, a small breakaway republic north of Pakistan. Fifty miles from any civilization, the three-story stone structure was carved out of the top of the Hersian Plateau, the lone hint of a landmark in an otherwise flat, barren wasteland. At midnight, with its watchtowers illuminated, it looked remarkably like a crown atop a demon.

The legendary penitentiary had been built in 1860 by the British as a prisoner of war camp to hold and execute those who disagreed with the ways of the Empire. Beyond the addition of electricity, not much had changed in 150 years. The sixty-foot-high building was a giant block of granite capped with castlelike battlements and four octagonal guard towers at its corners. Named for Dante's chief guardian of the seventh circle of hell, its reputation far exceeded even Dante's vision. Of late, it sat 30 percent full, with a downsized staff of eighteen guards, men who would likely have been residents if they did not work in the prison. The penal complex was underfunded, and a destination for the type of convict that drew little sympathy from Amnesty International. A stretch at Chiron was a death sentence, even if a prisoner wasn't technically scheduled for execution. Whether he had been sentenced for five years or thirty, no prisoner ever lived to see parole.

Death came in a variety of ways: execution, either by the electric chair or beheading, depending on the warden's mood; a guard's bullet while trying to escape; murder by a fellow convict; or, as was most often the case, the prisoner's own hand.

There was only one way to get to Chiron, and that was by a hardpack road, six miles long from the desert floor and barely wide enough for a single truck, that meandered up the mountainside.

There had not been an escape from the prison since 1895. If one were lucky enough to somehow breach the three-foot-thick walls, one would be faced with two options: a six-mile run down the access road—which was under the watch of two permanently manned guard towers—followed by a perilous fifty-mile desert journey; or a threethousand- foot dive off the front cliff, where one could taste the air of freedom for all of twenty-five seconds before being shredded on the razor-sharp rocks at the base. It was one of the few prisons in the world that had no need to be encased within a circumference of razor wire.

Chiron was a destination favored by the world's more corrupt judicial systems, those that wanted to make people disappear. It was a place where no thought was given to the population, where white-collar, blue-collar, and no-collar were thoroughly mixed, with the hoped-for end result that they would wipe each other out.

Simon Bellatori sat within his eight-by-eight cell, on the earthen floor, scheduled for death at 5:00 a.m. He didn't know where the dramatic idea of a dawn execution came from, but he thought the practice inhumane.

It was supposed to have been a simple theft, of a letter from the office of a businessman that had been illegally acquired through auction, a letter of great antiquity written by a Muslim grand vizier to his Christian archbishop brother, a letter never meant to be shared with the world. In the modern world, it was a crime undeserving of a death sentence, but the modern world existed only in dreams within the ancient prison walls.

Simon and his partner were supposed to get in and out and be on time for a late dinner reservation at Damsteeg near Prinsengracht Canal in the old center of Amsterdam by 9:00 p.m. But the best-laid plans of mice and men . . .

Now, as he sat in his cell at Chiron, Simon felt a profound regret for what he had done. Not for the theft or any of the deeds in his past. His remorse was solely for involving his friend, who sat in the neighboring cell, for placing someone he cared about in such danger, for delivering someone who trusted him to death's door in this godforsaken land.

For tomorrow, come dawn, they would be awakened and marched into the neighboring room, where a man in a medieval hood would lay them across a cypress table, shackle their arms behind their backs, secure their prostrate bodies to the enormous block of wood, and, finally, strap their heads down with necks exposed to the world for the last time.

The room of death would fill with spectators. The guards would march the prison population in to witness the event, to fill them with fear, to paralyze them into compliance in hopes of avoiding a similar fate.

Last, and in a ceremonial fashion, the warden would enter, sit front and center, and glare into the eyes of the condemned, peering into their souls. And with a half-smile, his thoughts no doubt already on breakfast, he would give the signal.

Without further delay, the executioner would grasp a ceremonial saber, raise it high, and with blinding speed, bring it down upon the exposed flesh of their necks, severing their heads from their bodies.

Three Days Earlier

Michael St. Pierre walked into the high-ceilinged great room of his large ranch-style home in Byram Hills, a small town just an hour's drive from New York City. He threw his mail on the leather couch and poured a set of blueprints from a long cardboard tube onto his pool table. His three Bernese Mountain dogs, Hawk, Raven, and Bear, followed him in and sat at his feet as he unfurled the set of security schematics, smoothing them out upon the green felt surface. He had spent four weeks designing the pin-sized cameras and encrypted video surveillance and alarm system for an art storage facility belonging to a billionaire philanthropist by the name of Shamus Hennicot.

Michael understood full well Hennicott's desire to protect his collection of Monets, Rockwells, and van Goghs, and by applying his expertise, unique perspective, background, and insight to the overall project, he had created a system that rivaled anything used by the CIA in its technological impenetrability.

Michael turned and stared at the large painting hung above his stone fireplace, a painting of a majestic angel with wings spread wide, rising out of a glowing tree, its realistic perspective and warm colors reflective of the Renaissance age. It was a Govier, painted in the late sixteenth century and given to him by a close friend, a friend who had begged him to steal its sister painting and destroy it. The request weighed heavily on Michael, as it had been her dying wish—an unusual request, and one that he had fulfilled.

Michael had been a thief, had been being the important words. That was a world he had promised to leave behind. He had made that promise to his wife, and to himself, but circumstances had pulled him back in. Since then, he had pulled a single job for the money to pay for his wife's cancer treatment and had helped his friend Simon on several occasions. But each of the acts had been selfless, performed without remuneration, in service to others, in situations in which he had been forced to make moral compromises.

But that was all in his past now; theft was something he was exceedingly good at, but he was happy to tuck those skills away. He had established a legal business, a security business with a constantly growing clientele, a clientele that was fully aware of his conviction for breaking into an embassy to steal diamonds several years back. Michael was and continued to be hired on the basis of his illicit background and a reputation for quality that he had built up over the years. He was consulted because he could think like those who wished to infiltrate buildings, penetrate computers, lay waste to security systems, and steal Monets, Rockwells, and van Goghs. Michael thought like the opposition, he thought like those whose devious minds were focused on defeating safeguards and slipping into bank vaults. Hiring Michael was like stealing the playbook of the opposing team a week before the big game. You learned where to concentrate your defenses, where to plug up your unseen vulnerabilities. With Michael St. Pierre, you learned how to win.

Michael rolled up the blueprints, tucking them back into the cardboard tube, and left them on the couch with his unopened mail. He headed through the kitchen into the dining room. The table was set for two. The marinated steak was in the fridge and ready for the grill, the wine unopened, the crystal glasses lying in wait. Fresh flowers bloomed on the center of the table.

Michael had finally begun to date after eighteen months of mourning the loss of his wife. Mary had been his center, everything he had lived for. Everyone referred to them collectively as if it were one name: Michael-and-Mary, Mary-and-Michael. He'd never imagined being alone at thirty-eight; he'd never imagined life without her; he'd never imagined the swiftness and evil of cancer. And as the weeks and months slowly crept by, he'd never imagined how he would cope. But over time, with the support of his friends and father, he slowly began to regain hope, pushing aside the tragedy, replacing it with the memory of her smile, embracing the words, "Don't cry because she died, smile because she lived."

So, with his wedding ring off his finger and strung about his neck in memorial, he told his closest friends he was ready. And so were they.

With thick, tousled brown hair, his dark blue eyes sharp and focused, Michael was not the type who would ever lack for female prospects. He had a strong, handsome face that bore the signs of having been through life more than a few times. Just shy of six feet, Michael had remained fit, his body hardened by weights, rock climbing, and swimming. He was proud of the fact that he wore the same size jeans as when he was eighteen; he wasn't going to let himself slip down the drain like so many guys his age.

Paul and Jeannie Busch had him booked four Fridays in a row. Four dinners, four dates of smiles and nods and stories to impress, four uncomfortable "Good nights," and four beyond-awkward kisses. To say he was out of practice was an understatement.

But it was on the fifth date that things became unusual.

To start with, it wasn't a dinner date, or a movie; it wasn't even lunch. It was a game of one-on-one basketball on a Saturday afternoon, a date set up by, of all people, his friend Simon Bellatori. Father Simon Bellatori, an unconventional priest who was in charge of the Vatican Archives. Simon was a loner, his job consuming his every waking moment, leaving him with little time for many friends beyond Michael. He and Michael had faced life and death together, participating in each other's quests, sharing each other's pain. They had bonded in the worst of circumstances, which resulted in a relationship closer than family. And so, when Simon had mentioned KC, Michael did not want to hurt Simon's feelings, but he couldn't imagine that a date set up by his reclusive, priestly friend would amount to anything short of mild discomfort.

Michael arrived at the outdoor court behind Byram Hills High School, ball in hand, confident in his game. He had never played in school, hockey being his winter sport, but he had a good shot coupled with some moves that never let him come up short in any street match.

KC was already there shooting baskets as he approached. She moved with the grace of a dancer, her feet silently skirting the ground as she dribbled the ball. Katherine Colleen Ryan was tall—taller than anyone Michael had ever dated. At five-ten, she stood almost eye-to-eye with him. Her hair was blonde, the color of cornsilk, pulled back in a ponytail; her emerald green eyes were clear and brilliant and filled with life. She was trim and athletic, though entirely feminine. She wore a white Nike T-shirt over dark blue shorts; Michael couldn't help his eyes as they were drawn to her tan, lithe legs, amazed at how long they were. As Michael tried not to stare, he thought of the Valkyries, the Norse goddesses who carried the Viking dead from the battlefield.

"Hi," Michael began, extending his hand in greeting. "I'm Michael."

"KC," she said with a subtle English accent that made her sound almost exotic. She took his hand and shook it with confidence. Michael was unsure if the moisture he felt was from his palm or hers.

They both stood there lost for words, their introduction growing uncomfortable with self-conscious smiles and too many nods. They silently walked onto the court, bounce-passing the ball to each other as if it was a language more easily spoken than words. Michael skipped warming up and threw KC the ball to get the game under way.

The game started off cordial; few words were spoken as KC dribbled the ball. She took the ball out, faked left, faked right, took the shot from beyond the three-point line, and drained it. It was after the first basket—the one Michael let her have—that things started to heat up.

She smiled at him and tossed him the ball, her blonde hair swaying with her every move. Michael nodded and took it out, moved right . . . and KC darted in, stole the ball, drove to the basket, and made the shot.

Michael stared at her as if he were looking at a female Michael Jordan. He didn't feel as if he were playing a girl, he felt as if he were the poor schlub plucked from the stands at an NBA all-star game whose lack of talent was being demonstrated in front of fifteen thousand fans. He was already cursing Simon for putting him in this situation and thinking they were a good fit. Some friend.

Nothing was said as KC and Michael looked at each other, one smiling in triumph, the other in amazement-tinged embarrassment. Michael knew he had to step it up to avoid total humiliation.

Swish. Michael watched her make another basket.

But then Michael regained his game and his dignity. He answered with three straight baskets and the game remained head-to-head for the next half hour. For every one he sank, she sank one in return. The sweat was building, their hearts were pounding. Neither gave quarter. They were like two kids playing for the championship.

"Thirty-eight, thirty-eight," KC said in her English accent.

"Next basket wins?" Michael said through heavy breaths.

KC nodded as she dribbled in, but Michael stole the ball, spun left, took the shot, and . . . missed. KC got the rebound, brought it back, and drove for the basket, but Michael stuffed her, stealing the ball. He brought it back, faked a drive, and from forty feet, with a prayer, nailed it.

"Good game." KC smiled.

"Yeah, good game," Michael said as he leaned over, hands on his knees, catching his breath.

"I thought I had you," KC said as she brushed a few stray blonde hairs from her face.

"There's always tomorrow." Michael laughed, hoping to avoid a rematch.

Dinner was at Valhalla, Paul and Jeannie Busch's restaurant in Byram Hills. They ate in the shadowed back corner, like two teens on the first date of their lives. Though they were both hungry, their steaks sat almost uneaten as they became lost in conversation for over three hours, talking about sports and life.

"Is there a sport you don't play?" Michael asked as he sipped a Coke and leaned on the table.

"None that I wouldn't try," KC said. "Though I kind of prefer my sports faster, a bit more dangerous. The civil ones bore me after a time."

"Dangerous?"

"You, know, the edgy ones. That's why I love the United States; it's like an extreme playground. You've got the Colorado River for whitewater rafting, the Rockies for climbing and skiing, California for surfing, Lake Placid for luge and bobsled, Wyoming for horseback and hang gliding."

"An extreme junky." Michael laughed. He had always had an affinity for adrenaline, an addiction that had helped shape his former life.

"Bungee jump?"

"I can still feel the sweat on my palms from the first time I did it."

Michael sat there absorbing what she said, her interests, her smile, her personality, understanding why his friend had set them up. "How do you know Simon?"

"I was writing an article about the Vatican a few years back," KC said.

"Journalist?"

"Used to be." She paused. "I was researching religious history. He was quite helpful. How do you know him?"

"We help each other out from time to time." Michael hoped the lie wasn't that obvious. "He's a good friend. One of my closest."

"Mine, too," KC said. "I never blind-date, but he kind of insisted."

"I can't tell you how uncomfortable it is to have your friends picking your dates."

"Makes you feel like you can't do it yourself," KC said in total agreement. She smiled. "What do you do for a living?"

Michael thought on this, speaking about the present with no allusion to his past. "I have a security firm."

 "Stocks or safety?"

"Safety." Michael laughed. He could never wear a suit and stare at a computer screen all day. "Home and business security systems." Michael hated lying, but it really wasn't a lie as she had asked in the present tense. "Do you still write?"

"I'm actually a terrible writer. I do consulting for countries in the European Union, guide them in bridging the culture gap between their respective countries. Help them see eye to eye."

"Sounds . . . exciting," Michael said with feigned interest.

"Now you understand why I like jumping off bridges with a rubber band around my ankle." She smirked. "I do get to travel a lot and it allows me to work when I feel like working. And better yet, we Europeans take the month of August off."

"August off? Nice. Growing up, my dad the accountant never took any vacation."

"Neither did my mom," KC said, a tinge of sadness flowing through her voice.

"Siblings?" Michael asked, trying to short-circuit her melancholy.

"Little sister. She's a little financial whiz, Goldman Sachs in London. You?"

"Only child; meant more food for me. Are you and your sister close?"

"As can be," KC said warmly. "She keeps yammering about starting her own company. She has this mantra, ‘Thirty million by thirty, three hundred by forty.' It's all she talks about. Money. It's getting kind of annoying. I just wish she'd get on with it instead of talking about it."

"If she ever needs help . . ." Michael dug through his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted an elegant, embossed business card, handing it to her.

"Stephen Kelley?" KC said as she read the card.

"He's a financial guy, we're close, he's in that field if your sister ever needs a hand. Tell her to say she knows me. Just don't call on a Monday."

KC tilted her head. "And what's wrong with Mondays?"

 "I usually kick him around the golf course on Sundays cleaning out his pockets. It takes him a few days to recover."

"Thank you." KC smiled, moved by the gesture. She reached across the table and took Michael's hand.

KC and Michael continued seeing each other over the coming weeks, their frequent dates becoming more interesting: golf at Winged Foot, dinner at Nobu; tennis in Forest Hills, lunch at Shun Lee Palace. Michael even got to pitch to her in Yankee Stadium thanks to his father's connections and the Yanks being on the road. The games were always serious but filled with laughter, jokes, and witty repartee. They played for bragging rights and winner's choice of restaurant. The victories were split down the middle, the games consistently going head-tohead, the loser always chiming in with the optimistic rematch phrase, "There's always tomorrow."

Their growing relationship was like nothing Michael had experienced before; it was as if she was a forever friend. They would talk for hours about anything and everything and then sometimes just sit quietly, comfortable in each other's presence. He felt a sense of calm with her yet at the same time found her alluring, sexy. She had a sense of humor that was self-mocking and sharp, as if in direct response to a discomfort with her own beauty. Even his wary dogs liked her.

It had been almost a month since they met, one month since he barely beat her in basketball. They had yet to consummate their relationship. She respected his heart, his loss. She knew that some things couldn't be rushed; that intimacy occurred only with comfortable, guilt-free minds.

Michael had made dinner, the marinated steak already on the grill, the table set with fresh flowers, the wine open and airing. As KC walked in, she saw the small box on her plate. It was square, pale blue: Tiffany's. They simply smiled at each other as she opened it. She withdrew a small silver locket and chain and turned it over, reading the inscription:

 There's always tomorrow.

She held it in her hand and felt it touch her heart. It was better than a Christmas or birthday gift, for it was given unselfishly, not because of ritual or expectation; it was given from his heart. As she looked up, she could see behind his eyes: he was giving her far more than a locket. They never made it to dinner. The steak burned, charred to a blackened crisp.

Michael took KC in his arms. He moved slowly. It was like his first kiss, his first time. It had been so long. But he lost himself in the intimacy, his head swirling, his heart pounding. She held tight to him. Neither could tell where one ended and the other began. Their breathing came in fits and starts. They focused on each other, losing themselves to time, each selflessly forgoing his or her own pleasure to ensure the other's. Michael's hands moved gently along her skin, feeling her goose bumps rise despite their heat. There was a passion to the moment. And Michael realized that they weren't having sex—they were making love.

And as they lay there in the afterglow, they took pleasure in the silence, in knowing that they were safe with each other, that no harm could come to them as long as they were in each other's arms.

The following day the call came: KC had to return to work, a business trip to Paris, the City of Lights, to help mollify the egos and temperaments of the German, French, and Spanish representatives to the Union, who constantly bickered over policy. She would be back in a week's time. She asked for a second chance with his steak, yearning for a home-cooked meal. Michael said it would be marinating and ready. The good-bye was quick, as if it was a common practice, both preferring to look forward to long hellos. And as Michael watched her pull out of the driveway, he smiled. He had found something he thought he had lost forever.

Now, as Michael stared at the dining room table, at the unopened wine and fresh flowers, he wondered how he could have been so foolish. It had been four days since KC said she would be back; there had been no call, no note. He had left her countless messages without response. He felt the fool, opening his heart, sharing his soul, naively thinking he would find love again, so quickly, so easily.

He took solace in the fact that he had loved once and married, that he had been allowed to experience something most never truly feel. So Michael counted his blessings, buried his heart, and erased Katherine Colleen Ryan from his mind.

Michael patted Hawk on the head and had begun to clear the unused plates from the table when there was a knock at the door, stirring him out of the moment. The three dogs spun into a barking frenzy.

Michael walked through the great room, hushing his dogs, and opened the front door. A tall man, trim and fit, stood on the front porch, his eyes sharp and alive, belying his age, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly groomed. He wore a blue Zegna sport coat and tan slacks with razor-sharp creases; everything about the man was exact and precise, even the angle at which he had parked his Aston Martin.

"Hi, Michael," Stephen Kelley said.

"Hey, Dad," Michael said with surprise.

"Are you alone?" his father asked as he peered into the house.

"Mmmm, you might say that. Come on in. What's up?"

"It's about Simon."

Chapter  1

The gale-force wind whipped back Michael's hair, buffeting his clothes, rippling his cheeks. His body was prone, his arms and legs extended to control his fall. It had been five seconds since he left the safety of the plane and Michael was already at the terminal free-fall velocity of 120 miles per hour.

Michael glanced at the altimeter on his wrist, watching the numbers fall toward his deployment height of four thousand feet. Though comfortable with skydiving, he was never foolish; he didn't want to deal with that fatal free-fall injury, SDT: sudden deceleration trauma—what some people called hitting the ground.

Michael pulled the rip cord; his chute fluttered out of his para-pack and jerked him to a halt. The parafoil spread above him, capturing the air and guiding it across its airfoils, allowing Michael to control his descent and direction as if he were flying.

Every time he released his chute he said a little prayer and made sure he could easily reach the hook knife that dangled at his side. Though he packed his chute himself, he dreaded becoming entangled, having to cut away his main chute in time to deploy his reserve. He knew it was rarely the novice who was killed skydiving; more often than not, it was the overconfident expert.

He gripped the guidance handles of his parafoil and directed himself toward the far edge of the outcropping. The prison sat upon a ledge that was more akin to a Wyoming mesa than an Akbiquestan mountain. The lights of Chiron Prison were the sole sign of civilization for fifty miles. It was an imposing structure, seeming to grow out of the earth, out of hell itself. There was no barbed wire, razor wire, or fences. Its location and height served that purpose far more effectively. At three thousand feet, surrounded by desert, the prisoners would be imposing their own death if they attempted escape.

The half moon on the cloudless night painted the world blue, softening the sharp rock outcroppings, dyeing the desert so it appeared as comforting as the sea.

Michael landed softly on the far edge of the mesa, a quarter mile from the prison. He immediately pulled in and balled up his chute, removing the chute's container harness and tucking it under a tree. He unclipped the black sack off the front of his chest, knelt on the ground, and opened it.

He removed two 9mm Sig Sauers—oiled and holstered—and affixed them to his body. Michael hated guns; he had never used them until Simon taught him how and even then it was always with great reluctance. He had become proficient only through necessity, and he much preferred his knife. But coming into a prison alone, against a group of armed guards, he had no choice.

He pulled out two small backpacks: BASE jump chutes. Different from the chute he'd just worn, these were designed with a small primer release chute that would be deployed by hand from a low altitude.

He extracted three blocks of C-4. He tucked a timer remote in two of them and stuffed the other block in his pocket. He opened the side pouch and removed a small electrical box, a frequency jammer that would render not only portable radios but all cell phones useless.

Michael had stolen art, he had stolen diamonds, he had stolen keys and golden boxes, but he had never done something like this. Tonight he was stealing his friend back from a death sentence.

Michael worked his way around the perimeter of the prison. There were no guards on patrol, no guards on the battlements, just two teams poised in the north and east three-story towers who were probably more interested in the World Cup soccer match being played on their small TVs.

He looked at the hundred-yard stretch of barren land in front of the prison, his line of sight following the rocky terrain toward the cliff 's edge. He confirmed the lack of obstacles and the moon shadow provided by the penitentiary to his rear. If they could survive the ten second run without being shot, they just might make it.

Michael pulled out a small block of C-4 and buried it at the south base of the prison, the red LED barely glowing through the dirt.

Michael fell back behind the prison and walked a half mile to the power station, the loud whine of its generators echoing off the prison and surrounding terrain. Utility lines and electrical power were still foreign words in this remote section of the country. Chiron's desolate location forced them to generate their own power, using gas-driven generators. The electricity was used to power the prison's minimal lighting, radios, satellite phones, and guard-tower searchlights, which were turned on only in the event of an escape attempt. But first and foremost, the generated electricity ensured the comfort of the warden.

The fuel depot contained two five-thousand-gallon tanks that were filled once every two months by a trucker who was paid triple wages to drive up the narrow mountain pass. He was always paid in advance, since the money in his pocket kept him focused as he drove past the hulking charred remains of his predecessors' fuel trucks that littered the valley below.

Michael carefully affixed a small block of C-4 to the first fuel tank and triple-checked the remote. He crept over to the generator and found the main electrical panel. He picked the lock almost as quickly as if he were using a key. He found the main breaker, and without hesitation, flipped it off. The lights of the prison immediately blinked out. Michael closed the panel, affixed the lock, and fell back into the shadows.

It was five minutes before the flashlights of the guards could be seen, bouncing with their approach. Michael watched as two guards came into view, their cigarettes glowing in the night. He couldn't hear them over the whine of the still-running generators, but watched as they unlocked the panel, flipped the switch, and restored the power.

Michael waited until they were back in the prison, reopened the panel, and, once again, flipped off the lights. This time, the two guards walked fast, the anger about being interrupted once again evident in their stride. Michael quickly worked his way around, directly across from the prison door they exited, and waited as they reset the system once again. Michael watched their return. The lead guard removed the key ring from his waist, opened the door, and disappeared inside, the door slamming shut behind him.

Michael went back to the generator, shut off the power again, and hid within the shadows.

It took them ten minutes to arrive this time, their curses easily audible above the generator's roar. They were so lost in their exasperation they never saw Michael two feet away in the dark.

The bullets passed through and erased the anger from the guards' minds; both were dead before they hit the ground.

Michael quickly holstered his pistol, bent, and stripped them of their guns, keys, and radios. He took the lead guard's jacket and hat, put them on, and headed for the prison.

Michael slipped the key in the side door of the prison. A sudden chill ran through him; he hated prisons more than anything in life. To him it was like having one foot in hell. He had spent three years at Sing Sing a few years back and still had nightmares.

He shook off the feeling and refocused, opened the door, and stepped into the square, dungeonlike room. A raw smell hung in the air. There were only two pieces of furniture: a table and a chair that sat directly across from each other. The floor was slightly sloped toward the middle, where a lone drain sat, from which dark stains radiated outward toward the furniture. Michael looked more closely at the two pieces. They were both rough-hewn, made of thick heavy wood, and were marred by a pungent dark residue. Michael took two stumbling steps back as he realized they were stained with death. The heavy table bore the scars of countless beheadings, and the electric chair . . . Michael could see the scorch marks on its arms and back.

Michael quickly exited the horrific room and stepped into a hall that he supposed could loosely be called death row. In Michael's mind, death row was a term that encompassed this entire prison. This corridor, though, was designed for those who were next in line. From the little that Michael had seen of Chiron, he thought it might be the least cruel exit.

Michael's quickly gathered intel told of the prison's lack of funds, which manifested itself in the absence of roaming guards. He knew that the prison's operation was two small steps above chaos and the guards' attention to duty would be compromised by bitterness and anger, as their treatment was only slightly better than that of their captives. The idea of a breakout would be met with laughter, and therefore, Michael knew, the last thing they would consider was someone breaking in.

Michael quietly walked down the hall, his ears attuned to sounds and movement. His heart raced as the adrenaline pumped through his veins, but where he usually took pleasure in breaching security, now he found himself filled with trepidation and fear, for he had no idea of Simon's condition. If he was hurt, Michael would have to carry him out; it wouldn't be like some artifact that he could abandon, some piece of art he could drop on the ground to steal back another day.

Michael worked his way down the hall and looked through the small slotted window set in the middle of a heavy, solid wood door. The cell was small, shadow-filled, the smell of human waste acrid in the air. And it was empty. Michael continued down the hall; there were ten such doors, and the first six cells were vacant. He came to the seventh and peered through the small, barred opening. A figure sat on the floor, back to the wall. Michael could barely make out the silhouette.

"Simon?" Michael whispered.

The figure's head jerked up in surprise, cautiously turning. Not a word was said as the shadowed figure rose and approached the door.

As Michael looked through the small opening, he realized this wasn't Simon. The person was shorter, the shoulders less broad. Michael lifted his small penlight, flicked it on, and shone it into the cell. As the dirty hair was cleared from the face, Michael could finally see the eyes staring back. They looked at him with a mix of emotion: fear and anger, shame and rage. Their emerald-green color was muted by circumstance.

Michael's heart plummeted, his mind spun into confusion by the unexpected sight of the woman before him, the woman who sat on death row, the woman he had held in his arms less than two weeks ago.

Michael was left speechless as he stared into KC's eyes.

Sixty-three hours earlier, KC had stared into the dark recess of a two-by-two-foot wall safe. She stood in the middle of a top-floor office in Amsterdam, the midnight world dark around her. The room was lavishly appointed: Hancock & Moore chairs and tables, antique Persian rugs, priceless Expressionist artwork, the latest electronics.

On her head she wore a small headband, its central pinlight illuminating the open wall safe before her. In her hand she clutched a yellowed letter encased in clear plastic. It was impossibly old, its black handwritten lettering having bled into the paper's creases. Written in Turkish, it was indecipherable to her but for intertwined symbols of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam that appeared in the uppermost corner.

She handed the letter to Simon, who quickly ran it over a portable scanner that was attached to his cell phone, sending the image back to his office in Italy.

KC carefully closed the safe door, careful not to trip the alarm system that she had so expertly overridden fifteen minutes earlier. She rehung the picture over the safe door and straightened out the bric-a-brac and curios that sat on the shelf below.

She had turned to leave when her eyes fell on the painting hanging on the wall nearest the desk. It was called The Suffering, by Goetia, a masterpiece painted in 1762, at the height of the artist's career, just after the death of his wife. KC knew it well, probably better than any painting on earth. She had researched its trail of ownership, the artist's biography and mental state, the type of paint used, the canvas it was created upon. She had become an expert in all things Goetia, as The Suffering was the first thing she had ever stolen and sold on the black market.

Her mind spun and she stared at Simon.

"What?" Simon said, seeing her concern.

"I stole that painting ten years ago," KC said as her eyes darted around the room. "We've got to get out of here, now."

Simon pulled out a preaddressed and stamped envelope as he ran out of the office. He stuffed the plastic-encased letter inside, raced to the lobby, and shoved it down the mail chute.

KC was already at his side. "Do you think this was a setup?"

Simon stared at her. "Absolutely not, I—"

But before he could finish, the elevator pinged open, its interior lights off. Three guards burst out, while two men remained in the shadows of the dark cab, silently watching as Simon and KC surrendered. And though KC couldn't see their faces, she knew exactly who the shorter man was. It wasn't just his silhouette that confirmed it, it was the change in the air, a feeling of dread she hadn't known since she was a teenager.

Barabas Azem Augural, the warden of Chiron, sat in his apartment on the uppermost floor of the prison. It was a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot space whose décor stood in sharp contrast not only to the prison but to the desert kingdom as a whole.

The walls were paneled, covered in art and mirrors; the furnishings were elegant and refined—deep suede couches, wingback chairs upholstered in silk. The view out the large windows was of the desert world, its moonlit sand and rocks rolling to the horizon. The room was cool, in sheer defiance of the weather, but the humidity was already seeping in. Barabas cursed the generator. If it was broken it would take weeks to fix, and he refused to tolerate anything short of his accustomed comfort.

It had been ten minutes since Jamer and Hank had gone to reset the power plant for the third time this evening. He knew he should have done it himself. There was not a soul in this prison above the desert who possessed an ounce of intelligence, himself excluded, of course.

He had risen through the ranks of the Akbiquestan army, achieving the rank of colonel through hard work, bribery, and the elimination of the one general who disapproved of his inhumane tendencies. Barabas had retired with a full pension and a full bank account courtesy of his innovative, capitalistic acumen and his ability to blackmail and strongarm the people and country he had sworn to protect. He had accepted the job as warden for Chiron, as it provided the perfect haven from which to run his varied enterprises, including "disappearing" people— some of whom didn't come through the judicial system—into the bowels of their cells and eventually their unmarked graves.

Barabas shone his flashlight about his apartment, found his radio, and thumbed the talk button. "Jamer!" he shouted. "If you don't get the power back on in the next thirty seconds, don't bother coming back."

He waited for a reply but nothing came.

"Jamer?" Barabas didn't have a slow build to anger; he was already fuming. Anyone who didn't snap to, anyone who crossed him always paid the price. And Jamer would be paying the highest. But then he recalled the fear in which his men held him. They knew his lack of hesitation in putting a bullet through the head of an underling and tossing his body into the valley. They knew his wartime reputation for slaughtering the innocent for a bottle of vodka. Jamer was his second in command, and if he wasn't answering, he wasn't capable of answering.

Barabas went to his closet and quickly dressed in his fatigues, cursing the two guards the entire time. He grabbed his pistol, radio, and flashlight and headed out the door.

The guards had been lulled into passivity. The triple loss of power had clouded their minds to suspicion, all thinking that the weather had finally taken its toll on the generator's overused circuits. Most of them actually welcomed the dark—no one would be the wiser to their nodding off in the 105-degree heat.

They collectively smiled as they heard Barabas's anger on their radios. Though none of them voiced their opinion, for fear of reprisal, they all internally rejoiced that maybe for once the warden would have to endure the desert heat that they suffered under.

The prisoners were all sleeping, unaware of the situation, as the cells and hallways all lacked lighting and electricity to begin with, the natural light of the sun and moon being the sole source of illumination to the prison blocks as it had been for a century and a half.

It would suit them all just fine, guards and prisoners alike, if the power didn't come back for days. It wasn't as if they needed it. It wasn't as if anyone was going anywhere.

Michael slipped the guard's key into the lock, ripped open the cell door, and locked eyes with KC. She stared back at him, her face a mask, devoid of emotion. She was dressed in torn black coveralls that weren't standard prison attire; they fit too perfectly. Her face and hands were smudged with dirt and filth. Michael's mind melted to confusion as he looked upon the woman who had left him ten days ago with no contact since. The silence of confusion quickly slipped to anger. KC was too smart, too capable to be here by accident. Michael realized that the month they had spent together was a lie, her deception exceeding all bounds.

Suddenly the guard's radio clipped to Michael's belt emitted a burst of static, and words in an incomprehensible language.

KC looked at Michael and finally broke the moment. "He said, ‘There's been a breach,' something about ‘no one gets out alive, shoot on sight.'"

Michael heard the silent prison explode into chaos on the floors above. His focus quickly returning, he tucked his emotions away along with the question of KC's foreign language abilities, and quietly asked, "Where's Simon?"

"Michael?" the voice called from the neighboring cell.

Michael keyed the cell door to the left and tore it open. Simon stood there, at his full six-one, wearing a dark shirt and pants, both of which were shredded, barely clinging to his taut body. He looked more like a soldier than a priest. His rugged face was bruised and bloodied, his jet-black hair matted with sweat, the gray flecks and streaks more pronounced. His calloused knuckles bore the welts of someone who had recently used his hands for something beyond prayer.

Simon said nothing as he looked back at Michael; he knew what he was thinking. He and KC were in this together. Michael wasn't sure who had put whom in danger but now was not the time to sort things out. Michael tossed him one of the guards' pistols. Simon pulled back the slide, ejected the clip, verified everything was working, and readied the gun.

"Let's go."

As the three ran down the corridor, Michael was already thinking how the entire jailbreak had just skidded out of control. Unless he thought quickly, no one would survive.

Michael, Simon, and KC slipped through the rear door and into the night. Michael again heard the foreign voice over the guard's radio. He opened his black bag, pulled the frequency jammer, and affixed its magnetized back against the standpipe adjacent to the door. He flipped the switch, watching as the small red lights began to glow and flicker. He checked the guard's radio; white-noise static cried out. The small black box had jammed all radio communication.

Michael reached back into his bag and pulled out the two BASE chutes, handing one to KC. "Do you know how to use one of these things?" Michael asked.

"What do you think?" KC said with no sense of humor.

"Just a yes or no answer," Michael exploded.

"Yes," she snapped.

"Strap it on, then."

"Where are we going?" she asked as she affixed the pack to her back.

Michael pointed to the cliff 's edge one hundred yards away, across the wide-open range in front of the prison.

Michael tossed the second chute to Simon. "You know how to—"

Simon held up his hand as he quickly strapped himself into the harness.

Both KC and Simon realized at that moment that Michael's black bag, his bag of tricks, was empty.

"What about you?" KC said as she tucked her long blonde hair inside her shirt.

"Don't worry about me. I'll meet you down there."

"No way." Simon glared at Michael. "Take mine. I'll find another way down."

"I said don't worry about me. I'll get down." Michael pointed at the stretch of land they needed to cross. "On my signal, you both run like hell and dive out as far as you can off that cliff. It's three thousand feet and sheer. Throw your pilot chute after a three count and ride it out into the desert."

"We can't run fifty miles of desert," KC whispered through gritted teeth.

Michael glared at KC. "I thought you liked extreme sports."

Simon and KC looked at the barren wasteland before them, pulled out the small pilot chutes from their BASE packs, and gripped them tightly.

Michael held out his arm, motioning them to wait. He glanced at his watch, watching the seconds tick down, pulled the small remote from his pocket, its high frequency operating above the jammed radio frequencies, and thumbed the switch.

The explosion echoed off the far side of the prison, its roar climbing up into the night. Simon and KC took off in an all-out sprint for the cliff.

Without a word, Michael raced in the opposite direction.

Barabas stared at the open and empty cells of the two Europeans. He knew he should have forgone the ritual morning execution and just shot the man and woman in the head upon their arrival.

He tried his radio but found it a static mess. Not only were the lights out, and all the electricity, but so were all of the handheld radios. Everything electronic was fried. Which was why he was thankful for his good old-fashioned gun. No electronics, simple reliable mechanics. He pulled back the slide, chambered a bullet, and headed through the execution room.

A sudden explosion reverberated through the halls, startling Barabas and notching up his anger tenfold. Without thought he raced past his electric chair and chopping block and headed for the door.

Barabas had been paid fifty thousand dollars to ensure the deaths of the man and woman. He had taken delivery from someone who acted as their judge and jury, a man who paid him a thirty-thousand dollar bonus above his going rate for such things to ensure Barabas's expeditiousness, discretion, and silence. Barabas had a reputation for efficiency and ruthlessness; he was afraid of nothing and never failed in his dealings. But the judge-and-jury man had raised something in Barabas that he had never felt before: fear. He had heard the saying that everyone is afraid of something. Well, Barabas had found what scared him. If he didn't ensure the death of his two escaped prisoners, there was no doubt that the judge-and-jury man would return to ensure his.

Barabas charged out the back door and looked around. He saw the black box with the blinking lights affixed, tore it off the wall, threw it to the ground, and crushed it under his boot. He flipped the button on his radio and smiled as it sang to life.

"There has been an escape; all guards, shoot to kill."

He looked across the yard at his jeep, his 1972 jeep, his jeep without any electronics to speak of. He hopped into the seat and breathed a sigh of relief as the jeep started right up. He turned on the headlights and jammed down the gas pedal, heading out of the parking lot toward the front of the building.

KC and Simon ran across the open ground in front of the prison. Simon was fast, but KC passed him right by. She ran silently, her arms and legs pistoning, a blur in the night. They were enveloped in darkness but could see the bluish outline of the cliff ahead. They held tightly to the small primer chute in their hands. Simon didn't look back at the prison towers or battlements, but he knew the bullets would be there any second. And though they might not see their running targets, a contingent of rapid-firing guards would very likely strike their mark.Simon had been under fire before but he wasn't sure if KC had ever truly experienced the fear that came with being under a barrage of bullets. She was a good thief, as good as Michael. Their capture was not her fault. They had fallen victim to something neither could have anticipated.

And even though the gunfire could start at any minute, their situation now was preferable to sitting in the prison behind them. They had a chance, a chance given to them by Michael. Simon hoped Michael wasn't sacrificing himself for their survival; he hoped he truly had a way to get off this godforsaken rock.

Utter confusion rippled through the prison, with guards shouting, stumbling through the dark halls, and calling out to one another. And then, like an infection, the prisoners caught on, aware that one of their comrades in crime had jumped ship. They began shouting, cheering, banging anything they could against their cell walls. It was as if hell had suddenly awakened, crying out, cheering on those who would defy inevitable death.

The guards didn't know which way to turn. They ran to the battlements, peering out into the night, but were blind; they raised their rifles as if they'd somehow catch sight of whoever had slipped their grasp.

Simon and KC heard the chaos erupt within the prison walls. Simon chanced a glance over his shoulder and saw the silhouettes and shadows of the guards scurrying about the ramparts and battlements, guns raised. He braced himself for the inevitable fusillade, turned back, and ran harder.

And the gunfire erupted. Bullets hit and skittered on the rocky ground around them. Simon could hear the high-pitched whizzing as the full metal jackets sailed past. The reports of the guns sounded like thunder as they echoed around the mountain.

Ten yards ahead Simon spied the cliff 's edge. He turned to KC, saw her focus and speed up. Side by side they came to the edge and without hesitation, without slowing a bit, dove straight out, sailing

into the night.

As Michael raced for the woods, he heard the roar from the prison confines, the inmates on the verge of riot. He did not know their crimes, he did not know their hearts, but a sentence in Chiron was certain death. Michael knew his friends did not deserve to die, no matter what they had done. This was not a place for the carrying out of justice, this was a place of death, a place with no regard for guilt or innocence. He hoped that those left behind would find salvation, though it would never be here on this lifeless rock.

Michael ran along in the shadows a quarter mile to where he had hidden his parachute. He hoped his lungs would hold out long enough for him to make it there and all the way to the cliff without exploding. Michael cursed himself, cursed everything around him. He was always a careful guy, but he had opted not to bring the extra, redundant BASE jump chute. He never imagined he would be breaking out two people, let alone that the second would be KC. He struggled to keep his mind focused, the swirl of emotions impeding his every thought, his mind vacillating between love and hate, fear and anger, deception and honesty. He had no idea why KC and Simon were here or what they had done. All he knew was that he wanted answers, all the answers, if they all got out of here.

Michael made it to the tree line and quickly found his discarded chute. He pulled his knife and cut away the main chute line from the harness. He wasted no time, strapping the harness back on his body, praying that the reserve chute was packed right.

Without a moment's thought, he charged back toward the prison.

Barabas's jeep rounded the corner, his headlights falling upon a man in a full-out sprint. It wasn't one of his prisoners; it wasn't the man or the woman. Barabas didn't know who it was, but it was obvious he was responsible for the escape. Barabas aimed his jeep right at the running man, leaned out the doorless side, pointed his gun, and hit the gas.

The headlights drew the guards' attention. They all looked out from the battlements and saw the jeep gaining quickly on the running man, and as if in automatic response, they raised their rifles and began shooting. Gunfire echoed throughout the valley, the trigger-happy guards reveling in the fact that they could take advantage of the moment and enjoy some target practice. What had once been a dull evening filled with no electricity and boredom had suddenly blossomed into excitement as they all smiled and shouted with each pull of the trigger.

Barabas himself took aim at the figure before him, fifty yards ahead. He steadied his gun hand while guiding the jeep and began rapid-firing.

Fear tore through Michael; he had not expected to be the bull'seye target of all of the guards, the fifteen-strong contingent rapid-firing at him. The bullets hit the ground behind him as he raced for the cliff. The edge was up ahead, falling off into total darkness. Michael ran harder than he had ever run before, knowing that the effort and pain would prove worthless if he didn't make it.

But the bullets were erupting closer, shattering the ground around him. It would be only seconds before one of the shooters got lucky.

Without breaking stride, Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out the small remote. He thumbed back the cover, hit the red switch . . .

And the night was torn apart. An enormous fireball rose from behind the prison, lighting up the world around it. The fuel tanks, in concert with the C-4, rained destruction upon the generating plant. Even at a distance, Michael could feel the heat of the blast searing the air. The barrage of gunfire fell to silence as the guards instinctively dove for cover.

Thirty yards back, Barabas was not deterred. He never even looked in the direction of the fireball. His attention was like that of a hawk on its meal, fixed without distraction upon Michael. He rapidfired his pistol until it clicked out of bullets. There was no time to reload. He pinned the gas pedal to the floor. He was out of ammo, but that didn't deter him. Ten yards. It would only be seconds before he ran the man down, the man who had destroyed his prison, freed his captives, and ruined his life.

Michael heard the roar of the engine behind him, its pitch climbing as it approached with unabated acceleration. He could hear the crunching of the ground, the pinging of the pebbles as they hit the undercarriage of the jeep. Michael refused to look back; he refused to look at death. The jumping headlights grew brighter as they played off the cliff 's edge only feet away . . .

Michael leaped out into the night. The wind once again poured over his body. Without a pilot chute, he would have to pray that the reserve was packed properly and the deployment was quick. He held tight to the rip cord as he free-fell into darkness.

Barabas saw the abyss too late; his focus had been only on the runner. He slammed on the brakes with both feet, ramming the pedal into the floorboard. The jeep skidded left to right, its inertia determined to sail him out over the edge. He threw the wheel hard left, hoping to avoid the inevitable, but it was too late. His speed was too great for the brakes to overcome; the jeep skidded sideways, finally slipping over the cliff into oblivion.

Michael heard the jeep behind him scrape over the edge. He craned his neck and watched as its headlights fell through the air, tumbling end over end. He turned his body and waited before pulling his chute, afraid of being pulled right into the descent of the two-thousand pound vehicle that was still behind him, tumbling his way.

Michael turned his body, expanded it as much as he could to create the most drag, slowing his descent. It was only moments before he would be killed by either the falling jeep or an abrupt impact with the ground.

The jeep, as if in slow motion, crept alongside him. Michael briefly saw the driver's fear, saw him clutching the wheel as if it would somehow deliver him from death. And Michael yanked the rip cord.

The chute skittered out of the pack, dragged up into the night by the wind, and the canopy deployed, yanking Michael's body to an almost sudden halt. Michael watched as the lights of the jeep fell away to pinpoints and then a sudden fiery explosion glowed at the foot of the cliff, its orange tendrils reaching up for him. The deep, resonating sound echoed up seconds later.

Michael turned and guided the chute through the plume of rising smoke out into the desert on a northerly heading. He caught his breath as he began drifting. Suddenly, headlights flicked on, illuminating a section of level ground. Michael glided in, coming to an easy landing. KC and Simon were leaning up against a Land Rover.

A tall man, six-four, walked up to Michael, his blond hair a tangle in the night's summer breeze.

"You're always late," Paul Busch said as wrapped his bearlike arms around Michael, hugging him tight.