The sky was a flat black, the air dense with the promise of snow. Distant laughter sliced through the cold; on its heels came a spattering of cheers and clinking crystal.

Cain MacAlister tossed off a double shot of hundred-year- old Scotch, embracing the bite on his tongue, the burn when it hit his gut.

He didn't believe in happily ever after.

Hell, he didn't believe in happily ever anything. Cain settled into the terrace shadows, enjoying the darkness that stretched around him. He poured himself another drink — three fingers high this time — from the bottle he'd grabbed from the bar.

His mother had certainly outdone herself with the reception. Politicians, celebrities and the world's wealthiest packed the ballroom in honor of his sister Kate's wedding. He'd even noted a royal or two. None, however, outshone the newlyweds he'd left twirling around the dance floor, laughing and hugging, oblivious to those watching.

Mr. and Mrs. Roman D'Amato.

The wind — driven upward from the Manhattan streets — snatched at Cain's shirt collar, its icy fingers flexing in the night air.

Unhurried, Cain leaned back against the wall, welcoming the chill from the cement when it penetrated the thin layer of his tuxedo. As the days approached the end of March, the weather tended to hang on to the colder temperatures of the Atlantic. But the bitter cold, the razor-sharp cuts of the wind, simply assured his solitude.

He set the liquor bottle onto a nearby ledge just as a muffled thwump hit the air. Careful, a warning whispered — its hum vibrating through his Celtic blood. Cain straightened, his stance predatory.

A clump of snow falling?

Maybe.

His hand slid over the Glock nestled in his shoulder holster, only to stop mid motion, the polymer cool beneath his fingertips. Hearing nothing, he shifted forward until he detected the faint scent of cigar smoke. Heavily spiced, unmistakably Cuban.

With a grunt, Cain let his hand drop from the pistol. "Joining me for a celebratory drink, Jon?"

"No." Jonathon Mercer, the director of Labyrinth — an elite branch of the CIA — stepped from the darkness into the fringe light of the ballroom's French doors. In spite of his sixty-odd years, Jon was a strong, broad-shouldered man with a shock of white hair and features so sharp, he looked as if he'd been hewn from granite.

With a jab of his cigar, he pointed toward Cain's glass. "Isn't that a bit much, even for you?"

"Not tonight." Cain had been weaned on Scotch.

Both men knew it would take more than a few shots to put him under the table.

"It won't bring Diana Taylor back," the old man bit out, his tone surly enough to spark an argument.

Cain brought the tumbler to his lips. "You're right." In one gulp, he drained the glass, using the alcohol to blur the memories of long hair the color of polished mahogany, the laser-blue eyes that were quick to flash with intelligence and, when spurred, passion.

"Damn it, Cain. It's been three years. Diana's murder was unavoidable. No one could've anticipated that car bomb."

"Let it go, Jon." Diana had been petite, delicate in nature as well as build. She'd deserved a better...what? Cain caught himself. Death? Life? A better fiancé? An ache pulled somewhere under his heart, but this time he didn't pour another drink. Tonight, even the bite of whiskey couldn't fill the emptiness.

"Not until you let her go." When Cain didn't answer, Mercer tried again. "Look, I might have been only her boss, but I cared for her, too," he said, his tone edged with irritation over the admission. "Not only was she the best damned profiler we had, but she was a hell of a woman."

"Your point?"

"Labyrinth is Black Ops. You've worked for me long enough to know the game. Hell, in the last ten years, you rewrote the damn play book." Mercer took a short puff on his cigar. After a moment, he glanced over the balcony to the hazy glow of the city street seventy floors below. "She understood the risks of the job, Prometheus," he murmured, his voice rough, sandpaper against sandpaper. "We all do."

"Do we?" Cain ignored the use of his code name and set his glass on the ledge by the bottle. Living with the grief had become easy, but the emptiness? He'd found that words, no matter how sympathetic, couldn't fill the void that entombed him.

"What if she had lived? What then?"

"We'll never know will we?" But Cain knew. "And what about Diana's grandmother? Did she deserve to die with Diana?"

"There are always casualties."

"And if it had been Lara, Jon? What if it had been your daughter burning to death?"

Mercer's blue eyes became twin shards of ice, but the man didn't answer. Cain suspected he couldn't. "Forget it." Cain said, even though he knew they both wouldn't. Ever. "You didn't come out here to play counselor. What do you want?"

Mercer sighed, admitting defeat. "Peace and quiet." He leaned his hip against the balcony railing and unbuttoned his coat. The wind caught at the front tails, slamming them against the cement until metal jingled. Frowning, Mercer patted his jacket, then reached in the pocket. "This was the closest I could come to both."

"Lucky me."

"I thought so." Mercer's hand froze. "What the hell?" He pulled out a small, white envelope and ripped it open. Several coins spilled into his palm. "Damn it!"

"Quarters?" Cain asked as another warning whispered from the far recesses of his mind. In the space of one heartbeat, Cain palmed his gun.

But he was too late. Two muffled pops hit the air, so close together each sound almost blended into one. Mercer jerked, then took a step back trying to recover. His features slanted with shock.

Cain grabbed for Mercer, his fingertips snagging the older man by his tuxedo lapels preventing him from tumbling.

"Jon." Deftly, he lowered Mercer onto the mosaic tile, using the cement railing for cover. Cursing, Cain unbuttoned Mercer's coat. The air between them clogged with the metallic scent of blood. Gut-shot. Two perfectly placed holes — an inch apart — tattooed his stomach. "Stay with me, Jon."

For a brief second, Cain tilted his head, obtaining a clear view of the highrises, stories of glass and steel, flanking their hotel. The shot could've come from any one of a hundred different places. Although unlikely, the possibility remained that whoever had taken Mercer down was out there, still observing.

Mercer drew a shallow breath. "The coins...a warning." The words were barely audible, forcing Cain to place an ear by his friend's mouth. "Find Diana."

"Diana?" Disbelief ripped through Cain, tearing his heart wide open. He grabbed Jon, fisting the lapel this time. "Diana's dead," he demanded in a harsh whisper.

"No." Mercer shoved the coins into Cain's hand — warm, sticky blood now coating the metal. "Hiding."

Mercer's eyes fluttered shut. "Shadow Point. Do...it." The coins dug into Cain's palm, his jaw tightened.

Diana alive? His mind raced, calculating the possibilities, searching for reasons.

Finding none, the betrayal settled deep, merging with rage, filling the void.

If Diana was alive, he'd find her.

Then after?

She'd better run like hell.

The asphalt path — wet and salt-ridden — dulled the rhythmic slap of Celeste Pavenic's running shoes. She tried, unsuccessfully, to concentrate on the sound and ignore the fatigue burning behind her eyelids, leaving them gritty and sore.

In the distance, Lake Huron bellowed. Its ice-ridden waves hammered the rocks, agitated by the strength of the northeasterly wind.

Feeling the same restlessness, she doubled her pace. Her muscles screamed in protest, her lungs dragged in the frost-bitten air, but she only pushed harder. Under her sweatshirt, Lycra clung to her damp skin — and to her gun, its holster snug against the small of her back.

God, she hated running.

Dodging patches of ice, Celeste veered past a rusted pipe gate, where a No Trespassing sign banged an unsteady rhythm in the wind.

She turned onto the lighthouse's gravel road, more snow than pebbles, and navigated the steep incline that spilled out to the keeper's cottage — now a small museum for the summer tourists.

Several yards beyond, the lighthouse's lone, whitewashed column of stone appeared stark and haggard against the craggy rocks of the point. A few windows dotted its walls, all framed with emerald-green shutters, vivid enough in the dimming light to soften the harshness.

She circled around the side of the tower, stopping only when she reached its weatherbeaten door. With one last step, she collapsed against the pine then grace-lessly slid to the ground.

On her knees, she sucked in long, deep jags of oxygen and waited for the blood to cease pounding through her temples. Overhead, the seagulls cried, their evening rant somehow soothing now that she'd finished.

Every day, for the past three years, she'd forced herself to run five miles. Never the same route, never the same time, but always five miles.

And twice a month she rewarded herself with a visit inside the lighthouse. With a slight shift of her head, she took in her surroundings. Pleased that she was alone, she slipped a piece of strong but flexible plastic from her sock and shoved it into the lock. Once placed in contact with the metal, Celeste counted to ten while it expanded, shaped then hardened into a key.

After having lost her other key earlier in the month, Celeste grinned over the fact that once again she had access to the tower, access that was usually limited to the county's historical society.