But how had he found his brother?

She remembered the droning of the noisy prop plane, the booming thud of the improvised crash landing – someone in a hurry, she’d thought. Someone for whom time was the biggest problem.

She turned to look at Daniel; it seemed another examination was in order. She’d done a more thorough job going over his back, so she looked closely now at his stomach, groin, and thighs. Something she should have done before, but she’d misread the situation badly.

It was the idea of time – the hurried way Batman had arrived and attacked – that pointed her toward what she was looking for. An ordinary tracker would indicate only where the subject was, and Daniel wasn’t really that far from home, not far enough to cause his dead brother to panic and run in guns blazing. So this tracker must monitor something more than just location, and it would have to be placed in the right spot.

She wanted to kick herself when she saw it – the little red tail of a scar sticking out from the edge of the tape she had used to secure the catheter tube against his leg. She pulled the tape now – always better to do that when the subject was still under anyway – and then removed the catheter. He’d be getting up soon.

The scar was tiny, with nothing raised under the skin. She figured the device must be more deeply implanted, next to the femoral artery, no doubt. When his blood pressure had gone crazy with the first round of interrogation, or maybe even from his fear when he’d first woken up, it must have tipped off his brother. And whoever else was monitoring him. The tracker would have to come out.

She had enough time before he woke up, so she got her first-aid kit. After snapping on some gloves, she numbed the site and sterilized the scalpel – good thing she hadn’t broken all of them on the Batsuit. She scrubbed the skin with iodine, then made a quick, neat incision on top of the old one, though a bit longer. She didn’t have forceps or tweezers, so she just poked around carefully with one finger on the inside and one on the outside. When she found the device – a little capsule about the size of a throat lozenge – she was able to pressure it out fairly easily.

She cleaned up the site and then superglued the edges together.

After that, she treated the raw skin on his wrists and ankles, cleaning and bandaging everything. Finally, she put the blanket over him and got him the pillow.

The capsule she left to cool on the steel table. To anyone watching the tracker on a monitor, it would appear that Daniel Beach had just died. She had a feeling that his death wouldn’t bother anyone in the department. She had a better sense of the other side’s plan now, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t all about her.

She exited the tent to attend to her own face, first wiping off the blood and then trying to determine the extent of the damage. The lip was swollen, and the tear needed a stitch; she applied a drop of superglue. Her cheek was missing a few layers of skin and she was going to have a matched set of very pronounced black eyes. Her nose was swollen and crooked, so she took advantage of her current painless state to push it back into shape as well as she could.

The pain would return fairly soon, though she’d given herself the maximum dose of the drug she’d privately named Survive. It wasn’t meant to work long term; it was just for making it through an attack like the one she’d just endured. Kind of like the adrenaline her body naturally generated, just much more powerful, and with some opiates to block the pain. Survive wasn’t on the books; her list of duties had not included creating anti-torture concoctions, but she’d thought it might be something she’d need someday, and she’d been right. This wasn’t the first time she’d used it – she’d overreacted to those earlier assassination attempts – but it was the first time she’d actually suffered through a decent beating with Survive in her system. She was pleased with its performance.

She didn’t have anything to stabilize her nose with, so she would have to try to be more careful with her face for a while. Luckily she was a back sleeper.

The face was going to be a problem. A big problem. She couldn’t exactly walk into a grocery store right now and escape notice.

When she had done everything she could think of to do, she lay on the cot for ten minutes, just gathering her strength – or what was left of it. The drug still made her feel strong, but she knew she’d sustained some damage. There would be repercussions to deal with. She needed time to rest and heal – time no one was going to give her.

CHAPTER 9

S

he decided to wake Daniel up. Once Batman came around – which he probably would in about fifteen minutes or so – the conversation was not going to be very genteel. She wanted a chance to explain – and apologize – before the shrieking and the death threats started.

She reset the protocols on the computer.

The chemical mixture in the air had long since dispersed, so she didn’t need the gas mask inside the tent anymore. She grabbed the other mask, then tucked both sets of straps through her belt, keeping them close.

She pulled Daniel’s IV first. She didn’t want him tethered to anything at all when he woke up. He’d had enough of that. His veins were still looking good. It was easy to inject the solution into the antecubital fossa of his other elbow. She sat on the edge of the table, lowered so that it nearly rested on the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees and waited.

He came to slowly, blinking against the overhead lights. He raised one hand to shade his eyes, then awareness hit. He stared at his hand – free, bandaged – and then his eyes darted around the bright room.