Epilogue
DELANEY WARD
Dulles International Airport
The overhead announcement jolts me awake.
My neck screams in protest. My mouth tastes like stale coffee and recycled air.
The fluorescent lights are too bright, too harsh, stabbing into my eyes.
Eleven hours from Frankfurt to Dulles, sitting in economy because the Bureau's travel budget doesn't stretch to comfort, and my body thinks it's still Friday afternoon in Germany instead of Friday morning along the Eastern Seaboard.
That can't be good.
The fifth call comes through as I'm staring at the screen, willing my jet-lagged brain to process what those four previous calls might mean.
"Ward." Patterson's voice is clipped, irritated. "Where are you?"
"Dulles. I landed an hour ago. Was planning to grab a few hours of sleep before...”
"Forget sleep. I need you at Quantico. Now. Priority assignment just came down from the Director."
My stomach sinks. Priority assignments at 0447 hours on a Friday morning after an international flight are never good. They're either political disasters or national security catastrophes, and either way, my weekend off just evaporated.
"Sir, I've been traveling for fourteen hours. I'm not exactly...”
"I don't care if you've been traveling for fourteen days. Get a cab. Get to Quantico. You have ninety minutes." He hangs up.
I stare at my phone for three seconds, processing the abrupt dismissal. Then training kicks in. I grab my bag and head for the taxi stand. Whatever this is, Patterson's tone says refusing isn't an option.
The drive to Quantico takes a little over an hour in early morning traffic.
I use the time to splash water on my face from a bottle in my bag, change into a clean shirt, and try to look like a professional FBI profiler instead of someone who spent nine hours in a middle seat next to a man who snored like a chainsaw.
It doesn't entirely work. The mirror in my compact shows dark circles under my eyes, hair that's given up any pretense of style, and the pale complexion of someone whose circadian rhythm has no idea what time zone it's in.
Good enough. It'll have to be.
Quantico
The assignment folder lands on my desk at 0650 hours, dropped by Assistant Director Patterson with the expression of someone about to ruin my day.
"Conference room. Ten minutes." He doesn't wait for acknowledgment, just turns and walks away, rigid with too much coffee and not enough sleep.
I flip open the folder. Inside is a single photograph—a man in tactical gear, face partially obscured by shadows, but the eyes clear and focused. Military bearing. Operator training evident in his stance. The kind of person who's seen combat and survived it.
Below the photo, a name: Alex Mercer.
And below that, a classification stamp in red: DOMESTIC TERRORIST—SUSPECTED.
Something about the designation sits wrong. I've profiled for the FBI for eight years, spent three of those in the Behavioral Analysis Unit hunting serial killers and domestic extremists. I know what actual terrorists look like in surveillance photos and interrogation footage.
This man doesn't look like that.
But the stamp is there. Official. Authorized. Which means someone with significant authority decided Alex Mercer represents a threat to national security.
And they're sending me to figure out why.
I close the folder and head toward the conference room. The exhaustion falls away. I'm working now.
Alex Mercer. Time to find out who you really are.