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personal belongings and stared at the sunlit sky that
     filled the window of his hospital room. The layers of gauze around his wounded hand were irritating; he felt like he was wearing
     a boxing glove.
    He was about to open the door to leave when it opened all by itself. At least that’s what Web thought until the man appeared
     there.
    “What are you doing here, Romano?” said Web in surprise.
    The man didn’t acknowledge Web right away. He was just under six feet tall, about one-eighty, very powerful-looking in a wiry
     way. He had dark wavy hair and wore an old leather jacket, a Yankees baseball cap and jeans. His FBI shield was pinned to
     his belt; the grip of a pistol poked out from its clip holster.
    Romano looked Web up and down until his gaze came to rest on the man’s bandaged hand. He pointed at it. “Is that it? Is that
     your damn
wound
?”
    Web looked at his hand and then back at Romano. “Would it make you happier if the hole was in my head?”
    Paul Romano was an assaulter assigned to Hotel Team. He was one very intimidating guy among many such folks and you always
     knew where you stood with the man, which was usually nowhere good. He and Web had never been close—principally, Web thought,
     because Web had been shot up more than he had, and Romano strongly resented the perception that Web was more heroic or tougher.
    “I’m only going to ask you this once, Web, and I want it straight, man. You bullshit me and I’ll pop you myself.”
    Web looked down at the guy and stepped a bit closer so that his height advantage was even more evident. He knew this ticked
     off Romano too. “Gee, Paulie, did you bring me some candy and flowers too?”
    “Just give it to me straight, Web.” He paused and then asked, “Did you wimp out?”
    “Yeah, Paulie, those guns somehow shot themselves all up.”
    “I know about that. I meant before that. When Charlie Team went down. You weren’t with them. Why?”
    Web felt his face growing warm and he hated himself for it. Romano usually couldn’t get to him. Yet the truth was, Web didn’t
     know what to tell the man.
    “Something happened, Paulie, in my head. I don’t know exactly what. But I didn’t have anything to do with the ambush, in case
     you suddenly lost your mind and were thinking that.”
    Romano shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking you turned traitor, Web, just that you turned chickenshit.”
    “If that’s all you came to tell me, then you can go on and get the hell out now.”
    Romano looked him up and down again and Web felt like less and less of a man with each pronounced glare. Without a word, Romano
     turned and left. Web would have preferred the man had exited on the heel of another insult rather than silence.
    Web waited another few minutes and then opened the door.
    “What are you doing up?” asked the surprised guard.
    “Docs discharged me, didn’t they tell you?”
    “Nobody told me anything like that.”
    Web held up his bandaged hand. “Government isn’t paying for another night on account of a scratched hand. And damn if I’m
     paying the difference on my paycheck.” Web didn’t know the guard, but he seemed like the type to be sympathetic to such a
     commonsense plea. Web didn’t wait to get an answer but just walked off. He knew the guard had no grounds to stop him. All
     he would do was communicate this development to his superiors, which he was assuredly doing right now.
    Web ducked out a side exit, found a phone, called a buddy and an hour later he was inside his split-level thirty-year-old
     rancher in a quiet Woodbridge, Virginia, suburb. He changed into jeans, loafers and a navy blue sweatshirt, ripped off the
     gauze and replaced it with a single Band-Aid of blazing symbolism. He wanted no pity from anyone, not with six of his closest
     friends right now lying in the morgue.
    He checked his messages. There weren’t any of importance, yet he knew that would change. He unlocked a firebox, pulled out
     his spare