It was going to be a long night.

Chase Vickers should have been accustomed to waiting. In his line of work he did enough of it. But he'd never developed much in the way of patience. He liked to move. More to the point, he liked speed. Lots of it. Tonight, however, parked in the looming shadow of Boston's Hancock Tower with the city in the midst of a blackout, he passed the minutes pacing as he waited for his passenger. Curbside, the sleek limo he drove part-time—and affectionately called Irma—purred like a big black cat.

Around him, plunged into darkness, the usually unflappable city of Boston was in a state of panic. Even at this hour the tower bustled with city police, Secret Service personnel and the occasional frightened civilian dressed to the nines. From the look of things, something big had gone down inside.

Chase had received the call for a client pickup just before 9:00 p.m. He was supposed to drive a foreign dignitary from Hancock Tower to Logan Airport. A simple enough assignment under most circumstances, anyway. Until the blackout hit en route. Traffic had crashed to a halt, and for the next three hours he'd maneuvered the big limo through spaces more suited to a Volkswagen. He'd dealt with an army of frightened motorists and angry cabbies, and dodged dozens of accidents caused by inoperative traffic lights.

Chase was comfortable in the dark and chaos. When he wasn't driving dignitaries and highranking government officials to various destinations—most requiring a driver with a high-security clearance—he spent his days on mercenary missions for Eclipse, a secret organization he and three oth