Hayward parked, and he and Sam got out of the car. FBI Special Agent Alfonse Archer greeted her with a smile that was only slightly forced. “Never a dull moment with you,” he said, shaking her hand.
“It always seems to be interesting, doesn’t it?” Sam said.
“Is this the part where I arrest you?”
Sam shook her head. “Not quite,” she said. “First you have to put me in mortal jeopardy.”
Archer obliged. It took just a few minutes to fit her with the listening device. When Archer finished, Sam looked at Hayward and nodded. Hayward took out his burner and called Artemis Grange’s number.
In the easternmost room of the twelfth floor of the Directorate of National Intelligence, which also happened to be Alexander Wells’s office, security detail commander Will Fleming surveyed the scene with a grimace on his face.
“Ambulance?” one of his men asked.
Fleming shook his head.
“Boss, I really think—”
The sound of a ringing telephone cut the man off. Will Fleming instinctively checked his pockets, then realized the noise wasn’t coming from his own phone.
The ringing continued. He looked around at his men, wondering which of them had violated his strict no-phone policy, but they were clean. Fleming walked around the office to isolate the noise. It was coming from Wells’s desk. Fleming opened drawers until the noise intensified. He eventually found a cell phone stuffed inside a manila envelope. He grabbed the phone and looked at it for a moment, then pressed the green button.
“Hello,” he said.
“You’re not Grange,” said a man’s voice.
“Who is Grange?” Fleming said.
“You answered his phone. Get him. Now.”
Fleming was perplexed. “I don’t know anyone named Grange, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to find him at this hour.”
The man cursed. “Who are you?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” Fleming said.
Silence. Then a muffled conversation in the background. Then a woman’s voice: “This is Special Agent Sam Jameson. James Hayward is with me. It’s time to end this.”
Fleming was confused. “Where are you?” he finally asked.
“Stay where you are,” the woman said. “We’re coming to you.”
Sam and Hayward knocked on the heavy glass double-doors at the National Intelligence Directorate’s main entrance. No response. They knocked harder, and saw motion behind the security desk. A rent-a-cop rose from his seat, adjusted his cap, pushed a pair of very large spectacles up his nose, scratched his prominent chin, and walked with a noticeable limp toward the entrance.
As he neared, he pointed at his watch, waved his hands, and mouthed, “We’re closed.”
Sam held out her Homeland badge.
The guard unlocked the door and opened it. “Help you, ma’am?” he asked, inspecting Sam’s badge.
“My colleague and I have business here tonight,” she said.
“Sure about that? Nobody works weekends around here, and anyway it’s pretty late.”
Hayward cocked his head. Something about the guard bothered him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“We’re sure,” Sam said.
The guard shrugged and held the door open for them. “Suit yourselves,” he said. “Earning your big federal paychecks tonight, aren’t you, then?”
“Something like that. Anyone else here?”
The guard nodded. “Few other hard-chargers trying to impress the boss, I guess. Burly guys.” He flexed his arms to demonstrate.
“Do you know where they are?” Hayward asked.
The guard adjusted his spectacles and averted his eyes. “I don’t pay much attention to what the office folk do once they’re inside. Their business, not mine. But last I checked, everyone was up on twelve.”
Hayward eyed the guard closely. Alarms were sounding in his head, but he couldn’t figure out why.
“Twelve it is,” Sam said.
“You need a key card to work the elevator,” the guard said. He turned and limped back to his desk. “I’ll lend you one, but you’ll have to leave a picture ID with me.”
“No problem,” Sam said. She fished in her wallet and handed an ID card to the security man.
“Is this a library card?”
“It’s got a photo.”
He shrugged, took her library card, and handed her a magnetic access card in exchange.
Hayward again eyed the rent-a-cop. There was something familiar about the man, but Hayward couldn’t conjure any details.
“Let’s go,” Sam said, pressing the elevator button. “No time to waste.”
The elevator doors opened immediately. She swiped the card through the reader on the control panel. When the light turned green, she chose the eleventh floor. Hayward nodded his approval. The party was on the twelfth, but they wanted to be sure they didn’t walk into an ambush.
The elevator doors parted. Sam bounded through the opening, rolled, and came to rest in a kneeling position, her gun pointed to the right side of the elevator. Hayward followed immediately behind her, clearing to the left.
They searched the eleventh floor. It was dark and empty. They found nothing but modular office furniture, filing cabinets, and empty conference rooms.
“Time to go upstairs,” Sam said.
There were two stairwells, one on either end of the building. They considered splitting up, one per stairway, but decided to stay together for mutual support. Sam took the lead and Hayward didn’t argue. With his arm still in a cast, he was best in a supporting role.
Sam walked on the balls of her feet and padded slowly up the first pair of stairs. She crouched low and peered around the rail to clear the far side of the landing. It was empty.
Hayward followed several paces back as she quietly gained the twelfth floor. There was no little window in the stairwell access door, so they were forced to go in blind.
Sam put her ear to the door. She heard muffled voices in the distance. Perhaps Grange was still here. It would be an interesting conversation, if there was to be any conversation at all. But maybe there wouldn’t be. Maybe this would be all about settling scores. The thought caused a new surge of adrenaline in her system.
Sam took a breath and pushed gently on the metal door lever.
Lightning leapt from the handle and into her hand. Fifty-five thousand volts raced through her nerves and exploded in her head. The electricity threw her to the floor. She landed in a heap, unconscious.
Lights flooded the corner. The door flew open from the inside. Hayward leveled his pistol.
Three men in blue suits poured through the opening. Each aimed a pistol of their own.
Hayward calculated his odds. Sam lay in a heap, unconscious. Her gun was on the floor. All three men stood in the Weaver firing position. Their gun sights were rock steady on his center of mass. Odds: roughly zero.
For a brief moment, he thought of just pulling the trigger. He’d take one of them out on his way to the afterlife. It would all be over. No more looking over his shoulder. No more struggling for air under the CIA’s stranglehold.
No more frantic, soul-crushing worry about Katrin.
Katrin.
Hayward took a breath, dropped the gun, and raised his hands in surrender.