“Do you know the odds of winning roulette twice in a row? Do you know them, Tom?”

Tom did. “I sure was lucky.” His voice was hollow. He didn’t even sound the slightest bit convincing, he knew, but he couldn’t muster the energy for anything more.

“Lucky?” Neil slammed down the glass so hard, most of the liquid sloshed over the side. “That’s not luck, Tom. Even a kleptocrat as rich as Joseph Vengerov doesn’t risk a half million dollars on odds like that! And you were so sure of yourself. He was so sure of you. Explain that to me.”

“No, you explain this to me: he bossed you around and you took it. Does he have something on you?”

Neil’s nostrils flared. He grabbed his drink again, what was left of it.

“Answer me.” The words ripped out of Tom, a great ugly torrent of them. “After years and years and years of driving us from place to place because you hate people like Vengerov so much, you were within feet of him and you didn’t say anything! You didn’t insult him or punch him in the face. You’ve never held back before! There has to be a reason. You were different today.”

“It wouldn’t have been smart. That’s the reason.”

“It wouldn’t have been smart?” Tom echoed. “When has that ever stopped you? Dad, he has something on you. He has to. Just tell me what it is. Come on, tell me. Because otherwise . . .”

“Otherwise, what?” Neil’s eyes cut to his.

Tom’s fists clenched. “You know, when I was a kid, I had nothing. I had no money, I had nowhere to go, I had no one but you, and you were fine with getting in trouble then. You were fine with getting arrested or getting in fights or yelling your opinion at anyone, no matter what the situation—”

Neil sighed, rubbing his fingers over his saggy eyelids. “Tommy . . .”

“None of that was smart, but you did it anyway. So why do consequences matter now? Is whatever Joseph Vengerov might do to you so much worse than that time you got yourself thrown in jail for two months? Huh? You never worried about me, but now something’s worrying you? Come on, tell me the truth, Dad!”

Neil didn’t answer. He seemed small and old and sad. The ugly, awful feeling in Tom’s gut grew worse, until he couldn’t stand to look at him.

“I think I’m going back to the Spire. I don’t know why I even came here. It’s not like we do holidays.” Neil would just spend his whole visit drinking, anyway, Tom decided bitterly.

“That’s your choice.”

Tom jerked toward the closet door to yank out his backpack. He hadn’t taken anything out of it yet, anyway.

“Merry Christmas, happy New Year, all that.”

“All that,” Neil echoed. He didn’t stop Tom from walking out the door.

THE PROBLEM ABOUT a casino in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, was the lack of taxis in easy driving distance. Tom headed a quarter mile down the road to hitch a ride by the tollbooths demanding an eighty-buck fee, and waited for someone to drive past.

He was rewarded quickly when a pair of headlights bore down on him.

Then his eyes adjusted as the vehicle came to a halt, and he realized it was a limousine, probably bulletproof, maybe missileproof. A string of security vehicles and automated patrollers pulled over behind it. There was really only one person around here who’d need this much security. Tom backed up a step when he realized it.

The last limo ride he’d taken hadn’t ended well for him.

“No way,” Tom said flatly.

He turned around to walk away, but the limo followed. A window rolled down, the wheels rumbling over the gravel next to him, kicking up a thin cloud of dirt that stung his throat.

Fed up, Tom whirled around. “Why,” he said viciously, “would I ever get in the car with someone who helped reprogram me?”

Vengerov regarded him over steepled fingers from within the dim limousine. “Because curiosity can be maddening, Mr. Raines.”

Tom’s sneakers scuffled to a stop. So did the car. Tom stood there in the swirling dust, betrayal a stinging wound in his chest, but, yes, questions were burning through his brain. He was dying to know why Vengerov was here, what he wanted.

He heard the doors unlock. The driver circled around and opened the door.

I am going to get my brain wiped again, some voice beat in his skull as he moved jerkily over. He slouched in the seat across from Joseph Vengerov like he was actually comfortable, like every fiber of muscle in his body wasn’t ready to spring, to get him out of there.

“The airport, I presume?” Vengerov said.

“The airport.” Tom never took his eyes from him.

And then they were off.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

FOR A FEW minutes, they rode in silence, Joseph Vengerov examining him over steepled fingers, a drink at his elbow that he wasn’t touching. Tom had taken a soda from the cooler, but he hadn’t ended up drinking it, either.

“It’s not very prudent to hitchhike,” Vengerov noted.

“Yeah, I could run into some creep in a limo,” Tom said before he could stop himself.

Vengerov’s pale gaze didn’t flicker. He barely seemed to blink. “My, you are insolent. If you still had those subroutines I wrote for Dalton Prestwick, you’d be in far better standing with those companies now, rather than blackballed by them.”

Heat flushed Tom’s cheeks. “I don’t care about that.”

“I can’t say I believe you. You have that lean and hungry look about you. I suspect you’re more ambitious than you let on. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you.”

Orange streetlights flickered over him again and again until they reached the end of the toll road, and merged on to a cheaper toll road. The limo jounced a few times before the driver shifted the car to pothole mode. The windows displayed an optional infrared mode in the absence of light. Vengerov dismissed it with a single, careless jab of his finger. Nothing to see outside but buildings fallen to disrepair.

“What do you want?” Tom’s voice was hard. “I know you didn’t come here to use my processor to win a million big ones. What was the point of that thing you did tonight? You were trying to make some point . . . or did you want my dad to realize I’ve got this computer in my brain?”

Vengerov arched his eyebrows, and Tom got the impression he was surprised. “Mr. Raines, I was trying to buy your goodwill.”

Tom was caught off guard. He felt confined, despite the spacious cabin of the limo.

“I gifted you with temporary access to a prestigious gambling parlor,” Vengerov explained, “and the opportunity to enrich your family. Your father is wealthier today because of me. I thought you’d be pleased. And more open to hearing my proposal.”

Vengerov had meant it as a friendly gesture?

That threw him. A lot. “What do you want from me?”

“I think you and I can come to an arrangement. I’ve taken a personal interest in a certain Combatant on the Russo-Chinese side, Mr. Raines. She’s a very deadly, remarkably skilled fighter with whom you happen to be personally acquainted.”

Tom felt a jolt inside him. Medusa.

“You must be aware there are many prominent men and women substantially invested in this war.”