Yesterday.

I COULDN’T DELETE ALL THE EVIDENCE MCKENNA’S PEOPLE HAD faked against me. There was too much of it, and it would have left too many loose ends. Something would inevitably have come back to bite me. So, given the amount of time available—much less than I’d hoped for, following Pete’s 911 call—I had to just cut and paste.

Cut my details out. And paste someone else’s in.

There’s no easy way to say this, but that someone else is you. I’m sorry.

If it’s any consolation, there was nothing personal about the choice. We’ve never met. I hold no grudge against you. It’s just that yours was the easiest profile to piece together. An email account here. A credit card there. A cell phone number. A street address. A copy of your driver’s license. Your details were all over cyberspace. It took no time to find them. And now, the seventh member of McKenna’s web of terrorist sleepers? It’s you.

Officially, Marc and Carolyn Bowman are dead. A police report shows they died in the fire at Karl Weimann’s house on Friday night. I’m Daniel Abbot, now. And Carolyn is Isobel Draper. We’re back together. Permanently. Offering my Lichtenstein for her life was the turning point, I think. She was only missing from AmeriTel’s parking lot on Sunday afternoon when I came out because the police had arrived early, and—seeing the danger—she was leading them on a wild-goose chase. But she came back. She found me. We have a stack of cash to burn through, thanks to Roger LeBrock. We’re going nowhere near computers. Or cell phones. And I’m not going to tell you where we are.

OK. That’s enough of my story. You’ve had your warning. Now it’s time to get your things in order. I don’t know how long you have before they come for you. McKenna’s people. Or Homeland Security. It’s hard to tell them apart. But either way, the result won’t be anything pleasant. So, be vigilant. Look out for anything new, or anything that changes. Like your spouse coming home later than usual from work. New neighbors moving in. An unscheduled visit from a utility repair crew. An odd vehicle hanging around your street. An unfamiliar mailman. A new guy at your job. At the grocery store. Or the gas station. You get the picture. And if you feel like something’s out of place at home—if things have moved or disappeared, or doors are left open when they’re normally closed—then someone’s been inside, snooping around.

That means it’s almost time.

But at least you know what’s coming. And you know what you have to do.

RUN!