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into a shooter’s stance, he reached across his body with his right arm and drew a Taser from under his sport coat.
    He was fast, too. Stupid, but fast. The arm with the Taser almost fully extended before I shut him down. As his unconscious body dropped, his hand involuntarily released the weapon, which sailed right at my face. I managed to catch the Taser but not the shooter. He crumpled to the floor of the train in a heap. No one saw the exchange, but several people heard him drop and craned around and above their seats to take a look. Part of me wished someone actually had witnessed the scene. Yeah, I felt the urge to show off a little. I’d been alone in a cabin for five years. Sue me.
    But the smarter part of me knew that any attention was bad attention.
    The other ten people in my car got sleepy in a hurry as I stared down at the Taser: the bane of my existence. Although the CIA couldn’t know for sure, electricity was my kryptonite. This quiet revelation had been the only productive part of my relationship with Blaster. His childish antic of injecting every handshake with an electric kicker didn’t make him popular with anybody, but it messed me up bad. Not sure why, but three weeks tearing through science books gave me a good guess: probably something to do with overloading my synapses and screwing with their electric potentials. Didn’t affect the rest of my body any differently than the next person, but even a small static shock took my powers away. The effect lasted only a few minutes, but I had to believe a full-strength Taser would be much, much worse. Maybe even permanent. I had no desire to find out. I removed the cartridge fromthe barrel and slipped it into my duster pocket.
    Threat neutralized, I turned back to the puddle on the floor. I lifted the bloodhound’s limp body into the seat directly facing mine, and even took the time to put the empty Taser back into his shoulder holster and buckle his seat belt. Took the liberty of lifting his identification, too, but it was as useful as any Agency-supplied cover.
    Stefan Kovac. Republic of Croatia. Right.
    The ID read “Croatia” but the guy cussed in American. I also found his CIA-issued mobile phone and tried to access it. As expected, the device was password protected, and would also have heavy encryption locks on any of the data functions. No matter—I would soon know everything I needed from faux-Stefan. I pocketed the phone and reached across the space between our seats. After a few light shakes, he began to stir.
    “Good morning, Sunshine,” I said.
    His confused, blinking look was familiar. It’s unusual to have your stream of consciousness interrupted while standing with a weapon, then have it turned back on and find yourself seated and empty-handed. He managed better than most, and it took only moments before his glower returned.
    “Sorry about that, but you didn’t give me a ton of options,” I told him. He remained stone-faced. “All right, let’s get started!” I clapped my hands together one time and leaned back in the seat.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Stefan,” he said with a smooth accent.
    “What’s your name, Stefan?”
    Again, he only stared back.
    “Seriously? The silent treatment? You know who I am, and I know who you are, generally speaking. Does your name really matter that much? Let’s at least be civilized. It’s not like I stripped you naked and left you in the dining car. Which I could easily do, by the way.”
    He sighed and his eyes went soft.
    “Fine. Rodney,” he admitted in pure American English. “I don’t get many chances to talk to a superhero, so what the hell.” The word superhero dripped with contempt.
    “Nice to meet you, Rodney . . . As I’m sure you’re aware, my name is Scott. See, not so difficult to be civil, is it?”
    I’d discovered over the years that fawning civility accomplished two goals when dealing with intelligence operatives: one, they got more talkative, and two, they