Posten's plan was simple: wait for an opening, strike hard, get out fast and no one gets hurt. At least not hurt much.

Delia Reichman had smashed his head in when she escaped. Now he wanted to return the favor. The ambush on the special ops had failed and Posten bolted while the getting was good, but not before he spied the girl fleeing the scene with a companion. Scavengers had scattered in every direction and Posten thought he'd lost their trail more than once, but the high-tech rifle scope kept him on their trail, a pair of jade shadows running scared.

Fate, so cruel to him his whole life, had presented this opportunity. He didn't mean to squander it. Reichman had burst into his life, improving then demolishing it in an instant. Now she would help restore its balance. He would march her back to the Mansion and demand to be reinstated to his old status. If they refused, he would go down in a blaze, taking her down along with as many of his turncoat comrades down as he could. At least that was the plan.

They fled north and west in a dizzying path through ruins and over crumbled concrete walls. Posten never was close enough to be detected; it was all he could do to keep up, praying that he wasn't following the trail of some other luminous couple. Their pace slowed as they headed toward the Juneau, then halted abruptly.

Poster felt lecherous as he watched them embrace, their bodies merging into one amorphous blob through the scope's eye. They drew apart and one shape—her partner, Posten assumed—knelt. Within seconds a small, bright triangle of light appeared on the ground: a fire. Posten was impressed with her partner's skill. Posten would need to be careful.

He advanced, glancing from the scope to his own feet, carefully stepping over rubbish piles in an effort to remain perfectly silent. The couple huddled near each other now, blocking the firelight. They had their backs to him, which was good. He knelt, then sat about twenty yards away, and waited.

Taking careful aim and dispatching this man was the most ruthless, but not necessarily the best, option. If he couldn't close on them fast enough he'd have another chase on his hands and, besides, Posten had nothing against street trash like this guy. Reichman had a way of winding her way into men's hearts; the poor sap was blameless. Better to wait for a clear opportunity. If this fellow wanted to play hero when it all went down, that would be another matter. But until then Posten would wait.

And wait he did. They showed no signs of retiring. He supposed they must have been talking in hushed voices, huddled close. Posten's legs cramped and he breathed on his hands to keep them warm. From time to time they would prod the fire into life. For a fleeting instant, Posten imagined throwing away his plan and softly calling out to see if he might join them.

One figure suddenly stood and Posten steadied the scope. The figure—the partner—paced a few steps and brushed himself down. He squatted to retrieve something from the ground, and then slowly began making his way down the steep hillside toward the river.

Posten was on his feet advancing even before the man disappeared from view. He lowered the rifle and proceeded with one hand before him, reaching for any loose branches, heading for the tiny triangle of light. He selected each footfall with care. Through the brush he could see it was a small encampment complete with a tattered mattress, a few overturned crates, and a sheet of corrugated steel to protect from the elements. Cozy indeed.

He stopped a few feet behind the girl and steadied himself, drawing in a deep breath. Then he darted forward and drove the rifle butt into the back of her skull. It landed with a thud, the shock reverberating back up his arm. She uttered a deep grunt and fell forward. Posten reached for her hair, by which he meant to drag into the darkness and wait for her partner to return, but in that instant his well-crafted plan crumbled.

The girl whirled with blinding speed and caught his outstretched hand, twisting his wrist until he heard a crack. Before that pain registered, her free hand cut through the night and chopped him across his face, darkening his left eye. Blood filled his mouth as he staggered backwards, his feet fumbling beneath him.

She was about to pounce again when he pointed and fired. Her head snapped back and she fell facedown beside the fire.

Posten spluttered and gagged as he struggled to breathe. His head felt numb and, beneath that layer of numbness, he knew some part of his face was horribly out of place. If I black out now, he thought as struggled to maintain consciousness, I'm finished.

In that instant he remembered the partner. His mind screamed for him to run, to get out of there now, but his limbs were torpid. He reached for a branch to prevent himself from careening down the hill into the river. It was then he saw a shadowy form emerge from the blackness, arm drawn back for a mighty swing.

Rickard Posten didn't see anything else after that.