"Oh, get over it!" Kevin scoffed. " Kidnapping is terrorism! You can’t take a soft line with terrorists —there’s no end to that crap! The bastards got exactly what was coming to them! And that’s just what we need inside the Collaboratory, too. We need an iron hand with these scumbags...." Kevin scowled mightily, gripping the peeling wheel of the car in uncontrollable excitement. "Man, it chaps my ass to think of those crooked Tinkertoy coppers in there, getting ready to bust up those eggheads. And here I am—me, Kevin Hamilton, thirty-two years old—a fugitive again, running scared. If I only had, like, twenty heavy-duty Irish Southies with some pool cues and table legs. There’s only twelve lousy cops in that whole laboratory. They haven’t been doing anything for ten years, except tapping phone lines and taking payoffs. We could beat those sons of bitches into bad health."