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the desk and the surprised face of Adam Reynolds. The poor dumb brainiac.
    Pilgrim dried his face. “Reynolds. All he wanted to do was good.”
    “Exposing us is not in the national interest,” she said. “It’s necessary for our work that we remain unknown.”
    Pilgrim shook his head. “I’m tired of what’s necessary. Necessary sucks. I want to do what’s decent.”
    She put her hands on his shoulders. “Pilgrim, you do. Every day. You’re tired and rattled. You’ll feel better when we’re back home. We’ll regroup, plan our next move.”
    “Screw the next move. Suppose there’s evidence in his office about the Cellar. Something I didn’t find. What do we do? Hide? Take up new names and new lives, again?”
    “You knew what our work was when you signed up. You knew it entailed sacrifice . . .”
    “Don’t lecture me about sacrifice. Sacrifice implies a choice.”
    “You had a choice today.” Teach crossed her arms. “You should have let Nicky Lynch believe he succeeded. Track him and see who the hell hired him. Instead you pull brainless macho crap. You probably liked him realizing he’d missed.”
    “Yes. I’ll long treasure the surprise on his face before I blew him away.”
    “Lose the sarcasm. You didn’t analyze the situation and I want to know why.”
    He sat on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t think because—I don’t want to do this work anymore.” The realization was clear in his head, unexpected but sharp.
    She came to him and touched his arm, and it made Pilgrim remember the old days, when she first found him, offered him a choice better than a lifetime in a dank hellhole of a prison that smelled of ancient stone, tears, and blood. “You’re just shaken—”
    Pilgrim shrugged off her hand. “I’m done. Adam Reynolds found me, when no one else ever has. He knew the aliases I used on the jobs in India and Canada and Syria. He could have plastered the news channels about us. We can’t hide anymore.”
    “Wrong. We simply find out how he found us.”
    “I don’t want to work for the Cellar anymore. I want a normal life.”
    Her frown deepened. “Stop this nonsense. You’re not resigning, Pilgrim.” Teach was like a mother who didn’t hear what she didn’t want to hear, he thought. “We’re dead if our aliases can be exposed. I know you well enough that you won’t walk away from us while we’re under attack.” She picked up her phone, started punching in a number.
    He heard his own words again: I want a normal life. He touched his pocket; the notebook was there, where he always kept it. He wanted to go to the lake’s shore, sharpen a pencil, draw the face as he remembered it, as he dreamed about it. But not now.
    Pilgrim clicked on the television, surfed to a news channel. CNN showed an aerial shot of a downtown Austin building, police securing the scene. The reporter said one man was confirmed dead in a sniper shooting and another death in a nearby parking garage might be related. No mention yet that the dead guy in the garage was a known assassin. No release of Reynolds’s name yet, it was too early. The talking heads droned on, the reporter on the scene parceling atoms of worthless data and trying to make her words meaty and relevant.
    Teach got off the phone. “We’ve got seats on the evening flight to LaGuardia.”
    Pilgrim made a walking-away gesture with his fingers. “Have a good trip.”
    “You can’t resign . . .”
    Barker stepped into the bedroom doorway. He straightened his glasses. “Good Lord. Are you quitting?”
    “False alarm. It’s the shock of nearly getting shot,” Teach said.
    “Your timing sucks.” A strange smile touched Barker’s face.
    “That’s what I said, he can’t leave us now . . .” Teach started. She turned to Barker and she stopped. Her body blocked Pilgrim’s view of the young man and he stood.
    Barker held a Glock 9-millimeter. Aimed at them.
    Pilgrim felt disjointed, still blinking from the surprise of surviving a