The phone ringing yanked McGee out of sleep and straight into dread.
Morning light through the blinds. Her heart hammering for exactly one reason: in her life, a phone call at this hour meant a body. She grabbed it without looking.
"Talk to me," she said.
"Spill the beans." Hannah's voice, bright and shameless. "How was the date? Is he still there? What happened?"
McGee collapsed back onto the pillow and laughed, the dread draining out of her so fast it left her lightheaded. "Jesus, Hannah. I thought someone was dead."
"Someone might be, if you don't start talking. Details. Now."
So McGee told her — the walk, the little Italian place, the candles. The vet dream and the magician. His father, and the way his voice had gone quiet. She skipped some parts and Hannah let her, which was its own kind of friendship.
"And his last name," McGee said. "Wells. Thomas Wells."
"Wells," Hannah repeated. "Huh. Suits him."
"He kissed me goodnight at the door. Then he left. Gentleman to the last."
"Mm-hm." Hannah was quiet for a beat. "You like him."
It wasn't a question. "Yeah," McGee said. "I do."
"Okay. Good. I'm happy for you." Another beat, and the warmth drained out of Hannah's voice like someone had pulled a plug. "Now put your happy away, because I need Detective Summers."
McGee sat up. "What?"
"We ran everything we have on Guy through the system overnight. All of it — the victims, the staging, the calls, the fundraiser playbook. The AI did probabilities on the next strike." Papers shuffling. "It likes D.C. High confidence. Like, very high."
McGee swung her legs off the bed, already reaching for her clothes. "And the target?"
"That's why I'm calling. Anderson wants everyone in the briefing room in an hour. Get dressed."
---
The briefing room was standing room only. Anderson at the head of the table, a map of Washington on the screen behind him, red zones blooming across it like a rash.
"Overnight analysis," Anderson said, "gives us an eighty-seven percent probability that Guy's next operation targets the capital. The system weighted the Guy Fawkes parallel heavily — the name, the theatricality, the escalation pattern. It also weighted his own words." He nodded at McGee. "Detective Summers has had more direct contact than anyone in this room. Detective?"
All eyes turned. McGee felt her face warm. "He likes an audience," she said carefully. "And he likes symmetry. Kane, Walker, Daniels, Langley — every target bigger than the last, every stage bigger than the last. D.C. fits."
"Where in D.C.?" someone asked.
"That's what we're about to—" Anderson started, and McGee's personal phone rang.
The room went silent. She stared at the screen. Unknown number.
She answered on speaker. "McGee."
"Good morning, my lady." Warm. Playful. Utterly at ease. "I trust you slept well?"
Anderson mouthed trace at a tech, who nodded, fingers already flying.
"Guy," McGee said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"A gift. I was thinking about our last riddle, and how much fun you had with it." A smile in his voice. "I've composed another. Shall I?"
"I'm listening."
He cleared his throat, theatrically — and she could picture him, wherever he was, savoring this — and recited, clear and unhurried:
*"Beneath the dome upon the hill,*
*Where marble halls are never still,*
*Two chambers share a single dome —*
*The people's house, so far from home.*
*They'll lock it down with guns and steel,*
*Afraid of what the shadows conceal.*
*But shadows, Marcene, never knock —*
*Tick tock, my lady. Watch the clock."*
The line went dead. The tech shook his head — trace failed, same as always.
Anderson was already moving. "Feed it to the system. Now."
It took eleven minutes. McGee watched the analysts work, watched the map update, watched the red bloom concentrate — tighter, tighter — until it sat pulsing over a single building.
The Capitol. Ninety-one percent.
The room exhaled like they'd won something. Orders started flying — perimeter, checkpoints, road closures, the full lockdown playbook. Anderson on the phone with D.C. Metro before the map had finished rendering.
McGee stood very still in the middle of it.
*They'll lock it down with guns and steel.*
Last time, he'd given her a riddle too. A politician. Donors. Five PM. She'd run herself ragged for two hours trying to beat a clock that had never existed — while sixty people sat dead in their evening wear, facing an empty stage.
He'd told her exactly where to look. And she'd looked.
She raised her hand. Anderson glanced at her, phone still to his ear, and held up one finger.
McGee lowered her hand. But the thought didn't lower with it.
*He's pointing again. And we're all looking where he points.*
Around her, the machine kept humming — confident, certain, ninety-one percent. Everyone in the room was watching the building.
McGee was the only one asking what they weren't watching.
Chapter 27