“Where are we going?”

He jumped. For a moment he had forgotten he wasn’t alone. Throwing an impatient glance at the whore seated beside him, he felt the terrible pounding in his head, which had just begun to ease, return. In the dark she looked a little like the woman he needed. If she kept her mouth shut, he could pretend. Tempted to tell her she was going to hell very soon, he forced a slight smile instead. “You’re getting paid, aren’t you? What difference does it make if we drive around for a little bit?”

She leaned forward and fiddled with the radio.

He slapped at her hand. “Don’t touch anything.” He had the station tuned right where he wanted it-needed it. The Night Siren’s voice was drifting out over the airwaves, making his body hard and his head clear. The woman wasn’t going to make it through the hour if she touched that dial again.

He kept his eye on the car he was following. He knew what he had to do. He had a job and he was damned good at it. The whore was such a good cover, and gave him such an anticipation of the pleasure to come later. He hadn’t been caught yet. Damn Whitney for his interference. The doctor had threatened to send someone else again. Stupid man didn’t like his reports. Well, fuck him. The doctor thought he was so superior, so intelligent, and was worried-worried-about the situation deteriorating. What a crock of bullshit. There was no situation, nothing was deteriorating. He could handle surveillance on a GhostWalker any day of the week.

Whitney thought his precious GhostWalkers were supersoldiers to be revered. Well, screw that. GhostWalkers were genetic mutations, aberrations, abominations, not the fucking miracles Whitney purported them to be. The entire lot of them should be wiped from the face of the earth, and he was the man to do it. They were government experiments that should have been scrapped long before they were ever let loose on the world.