Thursday, September 15, 12:05 p.m. EDT

The traffic on Massachusetts Avenue came to an abrupt stop just north of Macomb Street. Riley’s GPS was telling him that he still had a good half mile until he reached his destination. He had no problem determining in which direction lay the Cathedral Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul—the official name of the National Cathedral, as his GPS system so helpfully informed him; he just had to follow the helicopters.

Riley looked ahead and saw absolutely no vehicular movement heading southeast. Well, no guts, no glory! Laying on his horn, he swung his Durango into the oncoming lane.

Not good! Not good! NOT GOOD! A car swerved left; he swerved right. He thought he may have heard the clash of metal on metal, but it was hard to tell over the crunch of his truck launching over the curb. He found himself speeding through a small, grassy park. Watch for small people! Turn into the skid!

He angled himself for Macomb Street, dodged left, just missing a tree; found himself heading straight for a large, multipointed, metal fountain thingy; swerved right; mowed down a small sign of some sort, which made frightening sounds as it scraped across his undercarriage; bounced back over the curb; and slammed on his brakes, sliding the truck to a stop just inches from a small silver Acura.

This Acura, Riley quickly assessed, was the last car in a solid line of stationary vehicles that blocked the street for as far as his eye could see. Last car until I arrived! Time to ditch the vehicle!

To his left he saw a long building. The lettering to the side of the front doors read, Washington Hebrew Congregation. And right in front of the entrance lay a cement congregating area just the right size for a small group of Shabbat attendees or a large black Dodge Durango.

He quickly backed up, causing the car that had pulled up behind him to lay on his horn. He cut the wheel hard left, jumped the curb, and parked in front of the doors. On a whim, he left the key in the ignition, just in case they had to move it for services.

Even with all the activity around him, he covered the ground to the cathedral on foot in less than five minutes. As expected, it was a media circus. Every network was represented, and each of them had a truck. Satellite dishes extended from the roofs of the trailers into the sky, making the place seem like an urban space station.

After walking through the media maze, he came to the law enforcement layer. And it was impressive. There were police cars, Fed-mobiles, and SWAT trucks as far as he could see—probably enough to surround the whole of the cathedral grounds.

There was also the infamous yellow Police Line—Do Not Cross tape.

Riley ducked under.

“Hey,” someone called out. “Hey, get back under that tape!”

Riley kept moving forward, hoping against hope that maybe the voice was addressing someone else.

A hand clapped on his shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Riley turned to see a metro police officer. Two more were on their way to provide backup.

“Hey, aren’t you Riley Covington?”

Riley tried to smile. “I am, officer. I need to get to Scott Ross, head of CTD’s Operations Group Bravo.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Well . . . not exactly.”

The two other officers arrived. “What’s going on here?” asked the older of the two. “What are you doing beyond . . . ? Hey, aren’t you Riley Covington?”

“That’s who he is, Sarge. Says he’s here to see some Steve Ross guy.”

“Is he expecting you?” Sarge asked.

What? Do these guys work off a script? “As I was just telling . . .” Riley looked to the first officer.

“Marlin. Marlin Uhrich. That’s Sergeant Ron Burchfield. And that’s Eldon Auxier.”

“Hey, guys,” Riley said, nodding to each. “As I was just telling Officer Uhrich—”

“Marlin.”

“Okay . . . Marlin. I just need to see Scott Ross. I’ve got very important information about what’s going on in there.”

“Can’t you call him?”

“I can’t get through. I need to get in to see him.”

“That’s the problem, Riley,” Burchfield said. “We’ve got orders not to let anyone through this line who isn’t carrying a badge. That includes you.”

“Come on, guys. You’ve got to help me. I’ve got to get in there.” Why does everything have to be so unbelievably difficult?

“Hey, Sarge,” Auxier said, “how about if I go find this Ross character and see if he’ll come escort him in?”

“Hmmm, yeah, good call. Any idea where Ross would be?”

“Just ask for the guy heading the whole show,” Riley said. “If it’s not him, he’ll be standing next to him.”

“On my way,” Auxier said.

The sergeant seemed to be sizing Riley up. “Listen, I’d love to hang out here and get to know you—I’m sure you’ve got some pretty killer stories to tell. But I’m betting you’re not in the mood to talk, and we’ve got a whole line here we’ve got to watch. Will you give me your word that you won’t bolt from here?”

“I give you my word that I’ll stand right here—unless Officer Auxier comes back here with bad news. Then, honestly, you’re going to have to chase me down.”

The sergeant thought for a moment, then a smile spread across his face. “An honest man. I like that. Well, let’s just hope for both our sakes that Auxier comes back with good news.”

“Thanks, Sergeant.”

The two police officers walked off, leaving Riley to look around. He was surprised to see such a lack of activity around the cathedral building itself. Everyone seemed to be holding back. There’s got to be a reason for that. Usually, the more time you take, the more dangerous a situation becomes. You allow the enemy to set up, to entrench, to prepare countermeasures. Scott knows that—I taught him that lesson myself in Afghanistan.

Time seemed to crawl while he waited. Several times he was tempted to run. Burchfield and Uhrich were busy and appeared to have forgotten about him. But his word kept him where he was—that and the fact that Sergeant Burchfield seemed like a pretty savvy cop. If he ran, he was almost sure that the Sarge would be right behind him.

Finally, he saw Officer Auxier break through the crowd. Following him was Gilly Posada. Auxier pointed Riley’s way, and Posada clapped him on the back. Riley waved to Auxier, who nodded his head and went back to his place on the line.

“What are you doing here, Pach?” Posada asked as he walked up. He wasn’t smiling.

“What? No hug? No ‘How ya doing?’”

“Come on, man. Don’t make this harder on me than it is.”

“Make what harder?”

“Seriously, Pach. You know exactly. You gonna make me say it?”

“Scott sent you to deliver a message, so deliver it,” Riley said. He knew he was being a jerk to a good friend. It wasn’t Posada’s fault he was in this position. But right now, this man was the only person standing between where Riley was and where he needed to be.

“Okay, you want to hear it? Here it is. Leave, Riley! Get out of here! You’re not needed and you’re not wanted! Anytime Khadi’s involved, you’re too emotional and too unpredictable! So I’m sorry, Riley, but you’ve got to go!”

“You done?” Riley asked.

Posada remained silent.

“Feel better?”

“No, I feel like crap.”

“You gonna take me to Scott now?”

“You know, you suck, Pach! Seriously!”

Riley watched Posada with a sly smile. This battle is so won!

“Follow me,” Posada said.

“Thanks, man,” Riley said, putting his arm around his friend as he walked. Posada tried to shrug it off, but Riley kept it locked on.

He tried to pump Posada for information, but the ops man was having none of it. When they finally got near the command truck, Posada just pointed, then walked off.

Riley watched him go. Never seen him that ticked before. He shrugged. He’s a good enough friend. He’ll get over it.

Now, speaking of friends . . . He turned toward the truck. Two men in black suits were standing at the door. I am not going through this a third time.

He walked to the closest suit and said, “Send Scott Ross out here—now!”

“He’s busy,” the man said without emotion.

Riley pushed past him and began pounding on the door. “Ross! Get out here!”

The first suit grabbed Riley from behind, but Riley was able to spin him around so that he careened into the second suit. He pounded the door again. “Ross!”

Backups began sprinting in from all directions, and soon Riley was pinned to the side of the truck.

“Scott! Don’t make me hurt these guys!”

The whole mass of people slowly tipped to the ground.

The truck door flew open and Scott came bounding out. “Get off him,” he yelled. He began grabbing bodies and yanking them off. “Stand down, you idiots!”

Finally he got to Riley, who had the first suit in a headlock tight enough that the man was tapping the ground. “Tap all you want; this ain’t the UFC,” Riley said through gritted teeth.

Scott smacked Riley hard in the back of the head, and Riley let go. The suit sat up, sucked in a deep breath, then dropped again.

“I think I killed him,” Riley said from his back.

“No, he’s still breathing, you stooge,” Scott replied, reaching a hand down to help Riley up.

Another suit, this one distinguished from all the others only by a little more gray around his temple, ran up to Scott and began cursing him eight ways to Sunday.

“Relax, Ringle,” Scott said, putting his hand on the man’s chest and backing him up a step.

“What do you mean, relax? I demand this man be put into custody! Did you see what he did to my guy?”

“Looks like a result of crappy training to me. He’s lucky Riley held back.”

Ringle knocked Scott’s hand away. “Are you going to do something with this criminal, or do I need to go into the truck and talk with Director LeBlanc?”

“And tell him what? Your security man just tapped out due to rear naked choke hold? Trust me, LeBlanc would be on my side. Now run along, will you? I’ve got to talk to Mr. Covington.”

“This isn’t the end of it, Ross,” Ringle said as he walked away. “Not by a long shot.”

When Scott turned back, Riley was busy adjusting his various holsters—all of which had shifted around in the scuffle. All the laughs were gone now. It was one angry friend facing another angry friend.

“Why are you here, Riley?”

“Oh, shut up with the ‘Why are you here?’ Scott! You know exactly why I’m here.”

“You shouldn’t have come. You’re just going to muddle up the works.”

Riley laughed angrily. “Right. Admit it, Scott, you’ve been hoping the whole time I’d get here.”

Now it was Scott’s turn to laugh, but his sounded a little more uncomfortable. “Please! I’ve done everything I could to keep you away from here. How many times do you need to hear ‘No’?”

“Let me get this straight. You’re saying you tried to keep me away? Is that why you made Evie, the one with the heart of Charmin, tell me to stay away? And that’s why you sent Gilly to the line to tell me to leave? You knew Evie’d tell me to come here, and you knew Gilly couldn’t say no! So here I am, Scotty-boy,” Riley said, tapping Scott on the cheek. “What now?”

Scott looked at the ground, saying nothing.

Riley put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “I’m here. Khadi’s in there. Now you tell me how we’re going to get her out.”

“Okay, Pach. Come on in.” Then under his breath, he said, “Ooooh, Porter’s going to be so pissed.”

“Tell him to meet me out here. I’ll choke him out.”

Scott laughed and opened the door of the truck. At the top of the steps, he turned and said, “But I didn’t plan for you to come here. Get that out of your head.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Riley said. “Why do I feel like I’ve been masterfully played again by the Great Scottini?”

“Don’t count on it. It’d take somebody really, really, really smart to be able to pull off that elaborate of a con on American hero Riley Covington,” Scott said; then he winked and walked into the truck.