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world and close enough to be a threat. The distant thup-thup of a helicopter accompanied them.
     Bobby Nemo shouted, “We gotta get outta here, man!” but another shot rang out and metal clanged nearby.
     A weightier voice said, “He’s right, Alex. We’ll deal with this motherfucker later.”
     Apparently Gunderson was incapable of speech. He made a strangled sound that seemed to indicate a reluctance to leave, but after a moment he was silent.
     And a moment later, hurried footsteps carried them away.
     Donovan raised his head and peered over the dash, his gaze immediately drawn to Sara, sprawled on the sidewalk. He knew what she was capable of, but that didn’t equate with what he saw before him.
     She was somebody’s daughter. Someone’s sister, wife, grandchild, and, until now, a mother-to-be. Donovan found himself thinking of his own little girl, wondering what his life would be like if he ever lost her. Maybe he was an A Number One shitheel, maybe he hadn’t paid as much attention to her as he should, but he still loved her and couldn’t imagine a world without her.
     He stared at Sara and almost couldn’t blame Gunderson for his rage, for wanting him dead. And in his heart and mind, he knew this wasn’t over.
     Not by a long shot.
     Alexander Gunderson had a new cause.
     

Part Two

EFFECT
     

8
     
    J ESSIE DONOVAN COULD count on one hand the things she hated in this world, and among them was the alarm clock in her father’s bedroom.
     At 7 a.m. on a chilly Thursday, that clock started buzzing, just loud enough to pierce the armor of her bedroom wall and pull her out of what had, until then, been a sound, dreamless sleep.
     The alarm wasn’t meant for her father. No, chances were pretty good he’d been up since dawn. He’d showered, shaved, and hit the street by 6:45, true as always to his workaholic lifestyle.
     But because Jessie refused to set her own alarm and had consistently demonstrated a failure to rise on time, Daddy dear had taken it upon himself to make sure she didn’t sleep in. She had school to think about. And grades. And a tardy student does not bring home the kind of grades that make the future bright.
     What made matters worse was that Jessie couldn’t simply roll over and smack the alarm silent. Instead, she had to force herself out of bed and stagger into her father’s room.
     By then, she was awake. Groaning, but awake. Irritated, but awake. And she knew that somewhere out there in the working world, her sadistic jerk of an old man was smiling.
     
    A SHOWER PUT her in a better mood. She liked the water needle-hard and hot enough to redden the skin. She shampooed, shaved her legs, and by 7:35 was wrapped in a towel and ready for breakfast.
     As always, her father had left a bowl, a spoon, and a box of Cocoa Puffs on his breakfast nook counter. She had been staying with him for nearly two weeks now and the routine had never varied. This time, however, she was surprised to find a small, neatly wrapped box sitting next to her cereal bowl.
     Not a birthday gift, that’s for sure. Number fifteen had come and gone months ago. So what the heck was this all about?
     A note card was taped to the box. She ripped it free and unfolded it, the neat, economical strokes of her father’s pen staring up at her:
     
    TRY NOT TO LOSE THIS ONE
     
    She could hear him saying it in that no-nonsense tone of his. A tone of authoritative disapproval he’d cultivated after too many years on the job. She knew immediately what was in the box and felt like throwing it across the room.
     But what would that accomplish?
     Truth was, Jessie was too impatient for her own good. At least when it came to her father. It was obvious he loved her, and okay, okay, maybe she loved him back. But cut her a little slack. This was all new to her. She’d barely seen the guy in years. After half a lifetime of awkward, two-minute phone calls on birthdays and holidays, they had only recently