Back at the command center — the FBI's command center that used to be McGee's precinct — they got to work.
Background checks on Meridian Event Services. Clean. Twenty years in business, no violations, no complaints, no lawsuits.
Backgrounds on the four AV techs. Danny Ruiz, Marcus Webb, and the other two. Clean. One speeding ticket between them. A misdemeanor weed charge from 2019, dismissed.
They ran the fake fifth name through every database they had. Nothing. It didn't exist — not in any system, not anywhere.
They pulled security footage from the venue. Six hours of it. McGee and Hannah watched a man in a hat and jumpsuit carry speakers, run cable, coil wire. His face was always turned away. Always in shadow. Always just out of frame.
"He knew where the cameras were," Hannah said quietly.
McGee stared at the screen. At the blurry figure who'd killed sixty-four people.
"Yeah," she said. "He always does."
Dead end.
---
McGee's personal phone rang. Unknown number.
She looked at the screen. Looked at Hannah. Held up the phone and mouthed: unknown.
Hannah's eyes went wide. She started waving — getting Anderson's attention, pointing at the phone, miming trace it, trace it.
The room shifted. Headsets on. Fingers on keyboards. Anderson stood up, staring at McGee.
She picked up.
"Hello?"
A pause. Then that voice — smooth, amused, unmistakable.
"Hello, my lady." A soft chuckle. "You seem like you've been busy."
McGee's blood went cold.
"How did you get this number?" she said.
"Oh, Marcene." He sounded delighted. "I have my ways."
Around her, the command center was springing to life. The tech team working frantically. Anderson gesturing — keep him talking.
"Are you going to trace this?" Fauwks asked, almost fondly. "Go ahead. I'll wait."
McGee gripped the phone tighter. "What do you want?"
"Just to talk, my lady. It's been too long." A pause. "How are you? You sound tired."
"I'm fine."
"Are you? After everything?" His voice was gentle — almost caring. "The ballroom. The senator. That can't have been easy."
McGee glanced at Hannah, who was mouthing keep going.
"Why are you calling?" McGee said.
"Can't a man check in on a friend?" He laughed softly. "I'm enjoying the weather here in D.C., by the way. You should come check it out sometime."
McGee froze.
"It's to die for."
The line went dead.
She stared at the phone. Around her, the command center was buzzing — the trace, the recording, Anderson shouting questions.
The tech looked up from his screen. Shook his head.
"We lost him. He wasn't on long enough for a lock."
Anderson swore under his breath. The room deflated.
McGee set her phone down. Her hand was shaking.
"He knew," she said quietly. "He knew we were tracing. He said 'go ahead, I'll wait' — and then he left when he wanted to leave."
Hannah sat down next to her. Grabbed her arm. "What? What did he say?"
McGee replayed it. "'I'm enjoying the weather here in D.C. You should come check it out sometime. It's to die for.'"
"Do you think he's really there?" Anderson asked, standing over them.
McGee looked up at him. "I don't know. With him, I never know."
Anderson stared at the big board — at the photos, the timelines, the red string. At Langley's face.
"Then we find out," he said.
---
Washington, D.C. Late afternoon.
A man stood on the National Mall, looking up at the Capitol building. Dressed casually — jeans, a jacket. No mask. Just a tourist, as far as anyone could tell.
He tilted his head slightly, taking in the dome, the columns, the sheer scale of it.
"Beautiful," he murmured to himself.
He adjusted his jacket. Smiled.
Then he turned and walked away, into the crowd.
Chapter 22