75

VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA

Daniel Reese was the Patriot. What else could he possibly have meant?

Paige and her team kicked that question around for nearly two hours back in Landon’s conference room. There were still things that didn’t add up. Why had he denied being the Patriot on the day that he snuck up on Paige on the Cape Henry Trail? Why had he risked his job to provide them with classified information? And what had he told the grand jury?

Had Mitchell Taylor and the FBI somehow figured it out? Were they about to indict Daniel Reese along with Paige, Wyatt, and Wellington? Reese had been in that grand jury room for a long time. Maybe he had cut a deal and was going to testify against the others. Was that his “patriotic duty”?

After Wyatt and Wellington left, Landon told Paige his theory. “The government has your computer,” he said. “They probably used some kind of complex voice recognition software to figure out that Daniel Reese was the Patriot. And if they have your computer, they know what he told you.”

The next day Landon called Mitchell Taylor, who did not return his call, and Daniel Reese’s lawyers, who stonewalled him. Landon told Paige he had no idea if the grand jury had returned any indictments or whether they would continue meeting the next week.

After a fitful night of sleep, Paige got up early Friday, put on her sweats, and went for a run at First Landing. When she returned to her condo, she drove by the parking lot twice to make sure there were no strange-looking sedans with FBI agents waiting to arrest her. She finally pulled in and parked, showered and changed, and headed to Landon Reed’s office for another day of prepping for her Supreme Court case. She didn’t want to stay at her apartment during the day, get arrested by the feds, and do a perp walk in broad daylight.

She returned to her apartment after dark and checked around the parking lot again before going inside. Landon had finally gotten through to Mitchell Taylor late Thursday, but Mitchell wouldn’t tell him anything.

Friday night, Paige lay awake in bed, weighed down with worry about the FBI and the Supreme Court. She finally dozed off at 2 a.m., and her cell phone’s alarm startled her to life a mere three hours later.

Under cover of darkness, SEAL Team Nine left for Washington, D.C., early Saturday morning, crammed into Paige’s small Honda. Wyatt had a plane to catch out of Dulles International Airport, and the rest of the team, absent Landon Reed, had decided to settle into a Washington hotel with an extra day before the Supreme Court argument. Paige just wanted to get out of town a step ahead of the FBI, and Kristen seemed excited about having a break from the boys.

The crew was pretty quiet as they left Hampton Roads. Paige was driving and deep in thought. Next to her, Wyatt was sprawled out in the front passenger seat, his mouth open as he snored. Riding in the backseat next to Kristen, Wellington waited until the sun came up and then started rereading cases. Paige had her cell phone connected to the car stereo system, cycling through her most inspirational running songs, trying to get ready for her big day in court.

Paige stopped at a pancake house on I-95 just north of Richmond, and the team came to life. Once they were seated, Wyatt started in with one of his stories, and Kristen laughed along, providing all the audience Wyatt needed. Even Paige loosened up a little, though the sinking feeling came back whenever her thoughts turned unprompted to the possibility of an indictment. If the government wanted to play it out for maximum impact, they would arrest the entire team today, or maybe even tomorrow or Monday, on the streets of Washington, D.C. Landon would be forced to argue the case while Paige and the others waited for their bond hearing.

“If the government has indictments against us, I might just stay in Dubai,” Wyatt said between bites. “I hear it’s nice there.”

“Just keep an eye on the sky,” Paige said. “Now that they have drones, they don’t have to worry about extradition.”

Wyatt laughed. “We’re going to make a defense lawyer out of you yet.”

Later that morning at the airport they were met by Gazala Holloman, who handed Wyatt a handwritten letter for Saleet Zafar. “Make sure he reads this as soon as you see him,” Gazala said. “He’ll like you better after he does.”

Wyatt thanked her and promised everyone he would be in touch. He had packed everything he needed for the trip in his backpack—a computer, a couple of changes of clothes, toiletries, some legal pads, a baseball cap, and a pack of Phillies cigars. He stopped and gave Paige a quick pep talk about her Supreme Court argument before heading through security.

“You’re one of the smartest lawyers I know,” he told her, his arms on her shoulders. “And we’re on the right side of this. Don’t get intimidated. Stare those old geezers down and show them you belong up there. And whatever you do, don’t back down on anything.”

“I won’t,” Paige promised.

“Did I ever tell you the story about James Bowie and the Alamo?” Wyatt asked.

“About a hundred times.”

“Long live the Alamo,” Wyatt said.

Paige blinked back the tears. This was sounding too much like a last good-bye. “Be careful over there,” she said.

“Don’t worry about me. The Houthis are nothing compared to that snake pit you’ll be in.”

“Thanks. I feel a lot better now.”

Wyatt gave Paige a hug, wrapping her in the smell of cheap cigars. She was already missing the man, and he hadn’t even left. He had an infectious boldness, and just having him around made her feel more confident.

After he pulled away, he retrieved a letter from his backpack and handed it to her. It had a single name on the outside. “If anything happens to me, would you give this to my son?” Wyatt asked.

“Of course,” Paige said.

“Thanks.”

He turned, walked toward security, and didn’t look back. Silently, Paige prayed that she would see him again.