Running Hot

had felt the kind of adrenaline rush that only came with fieldwork. Running Nightshade was a fascinating challenge, but he sometimes missed the old days when it was just him and the other guy playing for keeps in the shadows.
    He glanced at his image in the mirror as he went down the hall. He was seventy and still in good health and excellent physical condition. It was too soon to tell if the drug would give him a few extra decades of life, but Sylvester Jones, the alchemist who first concocted it back in the late 1600s, had been convinced that longevity would prove to be a side effect of the drug. Something to look forward to, he thought, especially now that he had found his daughters. He had a genetic stake in the future. He wanted very much to live long enough to see his grandchildren grow up. His offspring, enhanced by the perfected formula, would be the most powerful people on the planet.
    He keyed in the code that unlocked the vault door and entered the gallery. The lights came up automatically, revealing the objects on display in glass cases. Each was a memento of an assignment successfully carried out. The bureaucrats at the clandestine government agency he had once worked for would have fainted dead away if they had known that he kept souvenirs. They were so sure they had concealed all traces of the very existence of their operation; so certain that even the agents had all died. Fools. One agent had been smart enough to see the writing on the wall.
    The item he wanted was not on display in any of the cases. He went to the back of the room and entered another code into the wall safe. The door swung open. He reached in and took out one of the objects inside.
    Just holding it in his hand sent a thrill of anticipation surging through him.
    Like old times.

THIRTY-ONE
    Grace shoved several strands of sweat-dampened hair back under her net and seized the heavy soup pot with both hands.
    “When was the last time you cleaned the deep-fat fryer and changed the oil?” she asked.
    “Can’t remember.” Petra emerged from the walk-in freezer with a package of frozen fish fillets. “Figure the more stuff you cook in the oil, the more flavor you get. Besides, every time it boils, you kill off all the germs.”
    “That’s an interesting theory.” She wrestled the big pot into the soapy water and reached for the scrub brush. “I’m surprised the health department doesn’t take a slightly different view, however.”
    “We don’t have a lot of problems with health inspectors here at the Dark Rainbow.” Petra ripped open the package and dumped the rock-hard fillets on the counter. “They don’t show up often, and when they do they don’t hang around long. Generally speaking, they take a quick look in here and off they go.”
    “Please don’t tell me that’s because Luther uses his talent to urge them along.”
    “Okay, I won’t tell you that.” Petra dumped a mountain of uncooked French fries into the fryer’s basket. “But that thing he can do does have its practical uses.”
    She dropped the basket into the hot oil and jumped back with a practiced movement to avoid the hiss and splatter.
    The kitchen door swung open. A wave of rock music rolled in from the main room. Wayne appeared, an empty tray tucked under his arm.
    “Order up,” he announced. “Three of them.” He tore three pages off his pad and added them to the long row of orders already hanging over a counter. “Gettin’ busy out there. Full house tonight. Bunch of damned tourists wandered in.”
    He turned and stalked back out through the swinging doors, allowing another flood of hard rock to inundate the kitchen.
    “Well, doesn’t that just suck,” Petra muttered. “What do they think I am? A machine? I can’t crank out food like I’m some kind of assembly-line robot.”
    “Looks like an assembly line is exactly what we need,” Grace said. She dried her hands on her apron. “I’m caught up with the dishes. Why don’t I take over the fish-and-chips orders while you deal with the dead red?”
    “Sounds like a plan,” Petra grumbled. “Watch out you don’t burn yourself on that damn fryer.”
    Grace eyed the sizzling oil warily. “I’ll be careful.”
    Petra glanced at the remaining order slips, scowling. “Three fish and chips and five more burgers.”
    “Got it.” Grace selected a few pieces of thawed fillets and dipped them in the batter.
    “Keep the portions below four ounces,” Petra said. She tossed five raw