JOE MOLINARI TOOK A SIP of the vodka the flight atten-dant had brought him, then eased back in his seat aboard the government jet. With any luck he'd sleep all the way to Washington. He hoped so. No, he'd sleep for sure, soundly. For the first time in days.

He'd be fresh to make a report in front of the director of homeland security in the morning. This one was put to bed, he could definitively say. Eldridge Neal would heal. There were reports to write. There might be a congressional sub-committee to go before. There was an anger out there they'd have to keep an eye on. This time the terror hadn't come from abroad.

Molinari leaned back in the plush seat. The scope of the whole remarkable chain of events was becoming clear in his eyes. From the moment that Sunday he was informed of the bombing in San Francisco to taking out Danko as he wrestled with Lindsay Boxer at the G-8 reception last night. He knew what to write: the names and details, the sequence of events, the outcome. He knew how to explain everything, he thought. Except one thing.

Her. Molinari shut his eyes and felt incredibly melancholy.

How to explain the electricity shooting through him every time their arms brushed. Or the feeling he got when he looked into Lindsay's deep green eyes. She was so hard and tough - and so gent............