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as a high-class prostitute.
    And I did it well, I thought, grinning and drinking from the glass. Nice trick with the scalpel in the panties thing. That is one I will surely remember, just in case I’m ever needed to play that part again. I might pull the scalpel on whoever might consider asking me to play that part again. I took another long sip of the wine and wished I had a steak to grill. Sadly, my fridge had only the bare essentials, and so my choices for dinner consisted of either a grilled cheese, a Lean Cuisine, or I could get a can of soup from the cupboard. I was leaning toward the grilled cheese.
    But the thought of making a sandwich was forgotten as I continued reading through the dossier. The file troubled me on a few levels. The first were the similarities between the girl and myself. Not only did she look astoundingly similar to me as a kid, her talents were nearly as powerful as mine, if not more so.
    Her audial range was tremendous. Her accuracy nearly unheard of. She would be a tremendous value to PSI...and other agencies around the world. But, the PSI had rules on utilizing children with these gifts. They were rules that I agreed with. Plus, I had never come across a child who had honed the gift in this way. In fact, I had only met a few other audials. The skill/gift can be frightening for a child, which is completely understandable, and so many times it’s quelled—shoved down so deeply that it’s actually lost for a period of time, possibly even forever.
    This young girl in the wrong hands could be of tremendous benefit to the enemy. I’m certain that other governments and agencies did not maintain the same ethics we prescribed to when it came to kids.
    With that thought, I knocked back the rest of my wine.
    There were, of course, still more similarities with the missing girl, Hope Mitchell. I had now read the file three times, committing most of it to memory. I swung my legs off the balcony and stood. I considered more wine, but decided against it. More wine inhibited my talents...or gifts , as my father called them. But boy, did I want a second glass.
    I stepped through my balcony’s sliding glass door and into my tenth floor apartment. My furnishings were sparse, as any good agents were. Hidden throughout my apartment were no less than six pistols. Anyone who broke into my home would find very little of interest. Nothing of value, and nothing personal. I had four similar apartments scattered around the world, although I used this one the most, and associated this one as my home base.
    And, of course, I had one such home in the Maldives that I was fairly certain the Agency knew nothing about. My private retreat. My getaway from it all. I had money stashed in banks around the world, including accounts in Swiss and Cayman banks. One never knew how life could change in an instant.
    I could disappear whenever I wanted, if I ever needed to.
    And I just might.
    Someday.
    But first and foremost, I wanted to find this girl, a girl whose situation was so similar to mine. Kidnapped...like me.
    At a young age...like me.
    An audial...like me.
    Jesus, I thought, as I began pacing in my living room. The Pergo floor creaked. I had a slight buzz, yes, but that didn’t explain why I still hadn’t gotten a feel for the girl.
    By now I would start “hearing” things. Whisperings, usually. Often from miles away, states away. Hell, countries away. And the more I “tuned in” to an individual, the more I could begin picking up whisperings, snatches of conversation.
    But nothing. Not even a sigh.
    Hope could possibly be putting up a shield around her, but she would have to be taught how to do that. I knew how to break through shields, and couldn’t fathom this was the case. Who would have taught her how to do it? I supposed it was possible that whoever had her could have taught her, but these things take time, and even as advanced as this girl appeared to be, I couldn’t imagine that she would have it down. I