The next morning, McGee's stomach was in knots.
She stood in her apartment, staring at her closet, trying to decide what to wear to meet a serial killer. The mustard stain comment echoed in her head. She pulled out a clean white shirt — no stains — and dressed with shaking hands.
Her phone rang. Hannah.
"Morning," McGee said.
"Morning. You ready to go over the plan?"
McGee sat on the edge of her bed. "Yeah."
"Snipers on the rooftops overlooking Fourth and Twenty-Seventh," Hannah said, all business now. "Undercover cops mixed into the crowd. It's two o'clock, so lunch hour will be over — foot traffic should be minimal, but it is downtown, so we can't clear the area without tipping him off."
"Okay."
"McGee." Hannah's voice softened. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do."
A pause. "I'll pick you up in twenty minutes."
---
The time slowly grew near.
Hannah drove. She didn't say much on the way — just kept her eyes on the road, her jaw tight. When they reached Fourth and Twenty-Seventh, she pulled to the curb and put the car in park.
McGee looked out at the corner. Normal street. Normal people. Nothing special about it.
"Listen to me," Hannah said, turning to face her. "At any time — any time at all — if you want it over, you wave your hand. That's it. One wave, and the snipers move, the undercovers close in, it's done. You understand?"
McGee nodded.
"Good luck." Hannah's voice caught, just slightly. "Be careful."
McGee got out of the car. Hannah drove away.
She stood on the corner of Fourth and Twenty-Seventh, alone, and waited.
---
Two PM.
Nothing.
Two-oh-one.
Nothing.
Two-oh-two.
Behind her — behind a bush near the curb — a phone started ringing. The ringtone was the theme from Little Shop of Horrors.
McGee turned. There it was, just sitting in the mulch, ringing. She picked it up.
"Good afternoon, my lady."
Her heart hammered. "Where are you?"
"Look to your left."
A taxi pulled up to the curb. Right on time.
"I need you to get into the taxi cab that is pulling up right now."
McGee looked at the taxi. Then at the rooftops — she couldn't see the snipers, but she knew they were there. She thought about the wave. One wave and it was over.
"Okay," she said. "I'll get into the cab."
She was wired. Hannah and every cop on the operation heard her say it.
---
In the command post three blocks away, Hannah's knuckles went white around her coffee cup.
"She's in the cab," someone said. "Taxi heading east on Twenty-Seventh."
"Keep the drone on it," Hannah said. "Don't lose her."
She stared at the monitors — the taxi's GPS dot moving through downtown streets, the sniper teams checking in, the undercovers scrambling to their cars. It was working. They had her.
But Hannah's stomach was in knots. Because McGee had said "okay" too quickly. Too easily. Like she'd already decided.
---
She opened the taxi door and got in.
---
The cab drove through downtown, turning corners McGee didn't track. She sat in the back seat, the phone from the bush in her hand, and watched the city go by.
Finally, the taxi pulled up to an L station. The red line. Elevated tracks overhead.
The driver didn't say a word. McGee got out, and the taxi drove away.
She walked up the steps to the platform. The phone in her hand started ringing — that same Little Shop of Horrors ringtone.
She answered.
"Good job," Fauwks said warmly. "Get on the train."
McGee climbed to the platform as the train pulled in. The doors opened. People got off. She got on and took a seat near the middle of the car.
She surveyed everyone around her. An old man with a newspaper. A woman with grocery bags. A kid with headphones, staring out the window. A businessman checking his watch.
Any one of them could be him.
*Or none of them*, she thought. He could be watching from the next car. From the platform we just left. From anywhere.
Her hand twitched at her side. The wave. One wave and the snipers moved, the undercovers closed in, it was done. Hannah had said: any time. Any time at all.
She could end this right now. Wave her hand, let them swarm the train, let it be over.
But then he'd be gone. And she'd never know what he wanted to tell her. She'd never look him in the eye. Three bodies, a crucified priest, all those phone calls — and she'd walk away without answers because she was scared.
*I'm not scared*, she told herself. I'm careful.
But her hand stayed at her side.
Then the phone rang again in her hand — Little Shop of Horrors, cheerful as ever.
The other passengers glanced over. McGee answered, her hands steady only through force of will.
"Hello, my lady."
She didn't answer.
"I'm going to need you to take off your wire now," he said pleasantly, "or this all ends. And we will not meet."
McGee's breath caught. He knew. He'd known the whole time.
"Once you do," he continued, "get off in the subway at Lexington and Fifteenth."
The line went dead.
McGee sat on the train, surrounded by strangers, holding a phone that had gone silent. She thought about Hannah — listening right now, hearing everything. She thought about the snipers, the undercovers, the whole operation.
*Take it off and you're alone. Really alone. No one hears you. No one comes.*
*Keep it on and he walks away. No meeting. No answers. Three dead and you learn nothing.*
She thought about Kane at his desk. Walker in the hospital gown. Daniels on the cross. She thought about the mustard stain comment — how close he'd been without her knowing.
Her fingers found the wire under her jacket.
*Hannah's going to kill me.*
She pulled it off.
She set it gently on the seat next to her — not dropped, placed — like she was saying goodbye to it.
---
In the command post, the audio feed went to static.
Hannah stared at the speaker. "McGee? McGee, come in."
Nothing. Just static.
"She took it off," someone said quietly.
Hannah didn't answer. She was already moving — grabbing her jacket, her keys, shouting for the team. But she knew. They all knew.
McGee was gone.
---
Lexington and Fifteenth. Underground.
McGee stepped off the train onto the subway platform. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The air smelled like brake dust and old concrete.
The phone rang in her hand — Little Shop of Horrors one more time.
She answered.
"Well," Fauwks said, "thank you for following directions."
McGee said nothing.
"There's a coffee shop called Rick's, on the corner," he said. "I'm in the back booth. If you make any calls —" a pause, gentle, almost kind, "— I will not be here when you get here. So come alone."
*Click.*
McGee stood on the empty platform, holding a dead phone. No wire. No backup. No one knew where she was.
She walked up the stairs and out into daylight.
---
Rick's was on the corner, just like he said. A normal coffee shop — big windows, the smell of coffee and bacon, a bell over the door.
McGee pushed through. The bell jingled.
Back booth. A man with dark hair, sitting alone, hands folded on the table. Just waiting.
McGee walked toward him slowly. She passed a couple sharing pancakes. An old man reading a newspaper. A waitress refilling someone's coffee. Normal. All normal.
She reached the booth and sat down across from him.
He looked up. He was ordinary — average face, forgettable, the kind of man you'd pass on the street without noticing.
"You must be McGee," he said. "I was told to give this to you."
He pushed a folded piece of paper across the table. Then he stood up, walked past her, and out the door.
McGee stared after him. Then she unfolded the paper.
*Go through the kitchen. Out the back door.*
She looked toward the back — the swinging kitchen doors, the clatter of dishes, the rush of heat. She stood up, walked past the tables, pushed through the kitchen doors. A cook glanced at her. She kept walking.
Out the back door.
An alley. Brick walls on both sides. Dumpsters. The smell of grease and garbage.
She looked left. She looked right.
"Hello, my lady."
She spun around.
There he stood.
Dark suit. Black tie. Black leather gloves. A Guy Fawkes mask — pale face, thin painted smile, pointed beard — staring at her with empty eyes.
Chapter 13