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for Reggie. He was a traitor and a jackass, but Reggie didn’t seem evil. Not even a little bit. More like a cousin who can’t keep out of trouble but who’s fun at parties.
    And, let’s face it, no one in the history of international espionage had ever been more cooperative. He could wear out a crack team of CIA interrogators in nothing flat. They dreaded interviewing him because he not only gave useful information; he was the kind of guy who had to tell you every single blessed detail of every single blessed moment of every single blessed day. Once, when a weary interrogator asked him to summarize some of the less important things—like Reggie’s account of driving to work or going to the gym—Reggie shook his head and said that he was afraid of missing something.
    He didn’t miss a thing. Not one single, mind-crushing moment of his life. I was tempted to bribe him into shutting up and never speaking again.
    When the episode ended, he turned off the TV and tossed the remote onto the coffee table. “Any chance you’re going to tell me where we’re going?”
    “Come on, Reg, you know better.”
    We got up. His suitcase had been packed by my people, but I allowed Reggie a few seconds to stuff some of his favorite DVDs into a bag. He looked around and sighed again.
    “What?” I asked.
    “You’ll laugh.”
    “No, I won’t.”
    He shrugged. “It’s just that I think I’m going to miss this place.”
    “Oh, come on…”
    “See, what did I say?”
    “I’m not laughing,” I said, hiding a smile. “But why on earth would you miss this place?”
    Another shrug. “I like it here. The food’s good. Nobody cheats at cards and you let me keep what I win. I seem to be getting somewhere with Rudy.”
    Rudy Sanchez was the DMS house shrink as well as my best friend. He’d spent a lot of time with Reggie, not as part of the interrogation team, but trying to map the route from law-abiding citizen to criminal and back again. He planned to publish his findings in one of those incomprehensible psychiatric trade journals that I don’t think anyone really reads.
    And, apart from that, Rudy was the kind of therapist who could help you find a way to like yourself again. He did that for me, and I was a real mess.
    Reggie bent and scratched Ghost between the ears. “I’m going to miss the fur monster here.”
    Ghost nudged his hand with a wet nose.
    “Despite the fact that he bit you?” I asked.
    Reggie straightened and gave me a philosophic shake of his head. “Puppy-boy there was doing his job. I can’t fault him for that.”
    Puppy-boy liked being talked about and he thumped his tail.
    Dog’s very strange. He won’t let my brother, Sean, pet him, but he goes all goofy around a bonehead enemy of the state like Reggie. Go figure. Maybe Ghost needs to log some couch time with Rudy.
    “I’ll make sure the fur monster sends you Christmas cards,” I told Reggie. “Let’s go.”
    I checked us through security and we walked together out to my Ford Explorer. When Reggie saw it he whistled.
    “You got the new one? Niiiiice,” he said, stringing it out. “What did you get on the trade-in?”
    “Less than I’d hoped,” I said. What I didn’t tell him was that my last Explorer had been hit by a rocket-propelled grenade. The one before that had been parked at the old Warehouse and was destroyed when that blew. This new Explorer was my fifth in four years. My insurance company freaking hates me.
    The new car was next year’s model. Black, with smoked windows and a bunch of extras, including bullet-resistant glass and extra suspension to compensate for the body armor. No ejector seats, though. I keep requesting them but they won’t give me one. I think they’re afraid I’ll use it for fun. They’re not entirely wrong.
    “Buckle up for safety,” I said as Reggie climbed in.
    Ghost went into the backseat, flopped down, and began enthusiastically licking his balls. Everyone needs a hobby.
    I got in, started the