“Really, Giusti. Sit down.”

She looked back at him. “If I do, I’ll go comatose.” She fell silent, started worrying an opal ring on her thumb. It looked old. A family heirloom?

“Have you heard from the medical examiner yet?”

Kelly shook her head again. “It should be soon. I told him to call me the minute he found anything like an embedded GPS chip. I guess Nasim never planned on going through the X-ray machine at JFK. They would have wanded him, maybe found the GPS. But maybe not, if it was mostly plastic.” She looked down at her cell, as if willing the medical examiner to call her. Finally, she slipped it into her jacket pocket. She sighed. “I should have wanded him myself.”

“Why?” Cal said, an eyebrow going up. “That isn’t something you’d normally do. So why Nasim?”

“Shut up, McLain. I don’t need logic right now.”

He studied her pale face, saw the tension, the depression settling on her shoulders like a heavy weight. “I remember when my mom used to hug me when I was younger, telling me it would be okay. I wish she didn’t live all the way over in Oregon. I could use one of her hugs right now.”

Kelly gave him a small grin. How could he joke like that? She realized it was on purpose and she gave him another grin. It steadied her. “I remember my grandma used to hug me like that,” she said. “After she died, my mom took over the big hugs.” She didn’t mention her college professor ex-husband, no support from him, either, when he’d been around. He’d hated it when she became an agent in the FBI, thought they were a den of right-wingers who wanted to control the world. Last she heard, he was filling all the smart young brains at Berkeley with how Mao had saved China, how he’d been maligned by the West. At least now he was surrounded by like minds.

Kelly waved her hand at Sherlock, who was staring down at her clasped hands. “I saw your kid on YouTube once.”

“Along with the rest of the world,” Cal said. “Sean’s a pistol.”

Sherlock raised her head. “Pistol’s a good name for him, all right.”

“It shouldn’t have happened, none of it,” Kelly said. “I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

Cal yawned. “Let me know when you get powers like that so I can bow down.”

“I was in charge. Nasim is dead. My fault.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I can see that. I’ll be happy to send your boss an e-mail, maybe even write him a letter. And I’m always available for a hug.”

He heard her hiss, then laugh, not much of one, but it still qualified.

Sherlock said, “I’m with Cal. A hug would be perfect about now.”

Jo Hoag appeared in the doorway. “Our shooter’s out of surgery, and stable. The surgeon took pity on us, said if we give it another ten minutes, he’ll let us talk to him briefly in Recovery.

“Better yet, Kelly, we know who he is. His prints match a Jamil Nazari. Turns out MI5’s got a file on him, but no one knows yet how he got into the country. He’s a thirty-four-year-old Egyptian, at one time a member of the Muslim Brotherhood. He was a muntazim, which roughly means he was an organizer, in touch with the Brotherhood hierarchy. He was with them during the resistance to the military-backed regime. Bombings, kidnappings, they did it all. He’s also a crack shot. He showed up in Algiers three years ago with his two sisters and his mother after his father was killed in a skirmish with government troops. He’s thought to have joined one of the local militant groups. We’ll know more soon about his family, his associates. Oh, yes, he’s known to speak English as well as Arabic, and some French.”

Sherlock jumped to her feet. “You got your pliers, Kelly?”

Cal said, “You’re going to pull his tonsils out his ears?”

Kelly gave them all a manic grin. “Nah, I’m going to use my wiles on him. Come on, guys, let’s go talk to Mr. Nazari.” Kelly was suddenly a woman on a mission, the fire back in her eyes. Good, Cal thought, she’s got her mojo back.

She laughed as her long-legged stride took her out the door.

Nurse Betina Marr buzzed them into the PACU and rounded on them. “You’re the FBI, right?” She held out her hand and they took turns giving her their creds. “Okay. You’re here to see Mr. Nazari. Dr. Baker said to let you in for ten minutes, no longer. Mr. Nazari’s beginning to come out of anesthesia—talk about a happy camper, what with all the morphine cruising through him. His thinking’s going to be muddled, so I don’t know how you’re going to get anything useful out of him. He’s really a terrorist?”