“You look a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you,” Jones said.

“It would be difficult to look worse,” Storm replied, as the limo began making its way into Washington, D.C., along a route that was all too familiar to Storm.

Jones grunted. “Tangiers was a bitch. Didn’t work out the way we planned. Shit happens. Anyway, I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m not.”

“I don’t believe that, Storm,” Jones said. “A guy like you needs the adrenaline rush. A guy like you thrives on the danger. You weren’t really happy in Montana. Deep down, you know it. And so do I. You knew this day would come.”

“You’re wrong. I was at peace.”

“Bullshit, you’re lying to yourself!”

“Look, I’m here,” Storm said. “But when I’ve done whatever you want this time, I’m going back. I’m done. We’re even.”

Jones took a fat cigar from his coat jacket, nipped off its end, looked at it lovingly, and fired it up.

“What about Clara Strike?” he asked. “You saying she doesn’t matter to you anymore?”

Concealing his emotions had always been something Storm did well. It was a necessity in his line of work. He would not give Jones the satisfaction of a reaction now. Or ever. Still, Jones had struck a blow. Storm and Clara had worked together. They’d been perfect partners on assignment-and in bed. She was part of the reason he’d decided to disappear. She was part of the reason he still wished that he were a ghost.

It was an ironic twist. Clara had been declared dead once, too. There was even a death certificate filed in Richmond that verified she had been killed. He’d believed it when Jones had first told him. He’d been crushed. She’d been ripped from his life, and for one of the first times in his memory, he’d grieved. He’d actually felt tremendous and overwhelming loss because of her death.