They did.
Within an hour, they were back at DeMarcus’s crib. Reggie Wade handed off a first-aid kit to Rogers, and she and Nichols disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door. Morris, duct-taped to his chair and blindfolded, head slumped forward, was snoring gently.
Wade smirked at Reeder. “Little man had a busy day.”
“Sorry about your partner, Reg. He was a damn fine agent.”
“That he was.” The dark eyes glistened. “And a better friend.”
“When did you last sleep, Reg?”
“Do I look like I got that good a memory?”
Reeder reached a hand up to set it on the big lanky man’s shoulder. “Go sack out on the couch awhile.”
“What, and dream about somebody double-tappin’ Jerry like he was some Mafia scum? No, Joe, I’ll keep my eyes open, you don’t mind.”
Reeder nodded. He went over to Miggie at DeMarcus’s desk, Wade following, and asked, “What’s the cop chatter on Bohannon?”
Miggie said, “Calling it a pro kill. FBI agent with a history of mob investigations.”
“What was Jerry doing still in front of Ivanek’s? Fisk had called him back to home base.”
There was something sorrowful about Mig’s shrug. “Guess the killer got him before he left.”
Reeder asked, “Ever hear back from Jerry about his Yellich text?”
Miggie shook his head, and Wade sourly offered, “And I still haven’t figured out what he meant.”
“Hell.”
Miggie said, “It gets worse.”
“How’s that possible?”
“Fisk is losing her shit. She wants all of us reporting back to the Hoover Building, like, yesterday.”
Wade asked, “Could somebody have whispered in her ear about our buddy Lawrence?”
“We made a few ripples,” Reeder said. “But now we’re making waves.”
Miggie said, “Fisk says if we’re not all back in her office by five p.m., she’ll start issuing arrest orders.”
“Not surprising. With such widespread government infiltration, anybody can be pressured. We hear from Hardesy yet?”
Mig nodded. “Right before you got back. Should be here soon.”
“Where the hell’s he been? What’s he been up to?”
A knock at the loft’s door made all three turn, and their prisoner’s head came slowly up, his rest rudely interrupted.
Miggie said, “Might be you can ask him yourself.”
The anonymous nine in his hand, Reeder went to the door and checked the monitor — Hardesy was out on the fire-escape landing, moving foot to foot, like he needed a restroom. Reeder let him in, shut and locked the door behind them.
“You had us worried,” Reeder said.
Hardesy was in a black windbreaker and black jeans, ready for ninja duty if necessary. “Had to take care of my family. I sent my wife and daughters away — don’t ask where.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
“What have I missed?”
Taking Hardesy by the arm and starting to guide him toward the sofa in the home-theater area, Reeder said, “You might want to sit down for this, Lucas. You’ve been out of the loop for a while...”
Reeder told him about Nichols’ kidnap and rescue, and Bohannon’s murder, news of which turned Hardesy blister pale.
“Jesus,” Hardesy said. Then, alarmed, he said, “Where the hell’s Trevor?”
Miggie said, “At the Hoover Building, apparently. Ignorance is bliss kind of thing.”
“Hell with that,” Hardesy said, leaning forward. “They’re fucking kidnapping and killing us! Trevor needs to be warned, or gotten the hell out of there.”
“No,” Reeder said firmly. “He’s behind enemy lines. Warning him is exactly what could kill him.”
Wade asked, “Then what’s our next play?”
Reeder said, “We get Nichols somewhere safe for the duration. She’s too traumatized to be helpful.”
The big man smirked. “What about Sleeping Beauty over there? You’re not really gonna cut him loose.”
“Don’t know,” Reeder admitted. “Still working that out. Listen, I need to step outside for a bit.”
The others exchanged curious glances, but nobody asked him what this was about. Everybody knew Joe Reeder had his secrets and his reasons.
From the landing, he slowly scanned the neighborhood. Mid-afternoon was pretty quiet around here, street people, tenants, merchants, denizens of a poverty-stricken area that got rougher when night fell. He trotted down the wrought-iron stairs, strode behind the building and into the shadowed recession of the tailor shop’s back doorway. He withdrew the phone he’d been given by President Harrison, took in half a bushel or so of air, let it out slowly, and made the call.
The President said, “Joe.”
“Sir.”
“Have you the information I need?”
“Not all of it, Mr. President. But there is a rogue group within the government. It calls itself the American Patriots Alliance.”
“I’ve heard that term. I’ve been assured it’s a conspiracy theory from the tinfoil hat crowd.”
“Well, I’m not wearing one and I can tell you it’s very real. It became necessary for me to recruit help and I’m working with Agent Rogers and her Special Situations team... one of whom has been murdered. That brings the total dead to eight.”
Silence for several endless seconds.
Then the phone said: “I’m waiting for the helicopter to Camp David now, Joe. How soon can I expect an answer on the identity of the traitor or traitors?”
“Well, it’s definitely traitors, sir, but the opposition here seems well aware of what I’m up to. Another of our agents was kidnapped, although we were able to free her.”
“Lord.”
“Sir, I’ve encountered compromised agents from both the Secret Service and Homeland. I hate to say this, but... right now nobody’s watching your back.”
“Except you, Joe.”
“Not me, because I’m not there with you. And you will surely hear some things designed to destroy your confidence in me, and of those I’ve recruited.”
“My confidence in you will not be shaken, Joe. But if you’re asking for more time, there isn’t any. War with Russia, as unthinkable as it may sound, could be just a few days away. Think Cuban Missile Crisis.”
“I’ll do everything I can, Mr. President. And I’m surrounded by real American patriots.”
“That’s all I can ask. All I could hope for. Joe, I have to go — the chopper is waiting.” The famous voice turned unexpectedly wry. “I could say something dramatic, I suppose... like you’re the thin red-white-and-blue line separating us from all-out war. But you don’t really need that kind of praise, or pressure.”
Reeder smiled. “No, Mr. President.”
They clicked off and Reeder went back up to the loft. Rogers had joined Hardesy, Wade, and Miggie in the massive wall screen’s viewing area of black-leather overstuffed seating.
Rogers was in a chair and Reeder perched himself on its plump arm. “How’s Nichols doing?” he asked.
“I dressed her head wound,” Rogers said. “She’s really been through it. Exhausted, in shock. I gave her something to help her sleep. That’s what she’s doing now.”
Reeder touched Rogers’ sleeve. “When was the last time you slept?”
“Earlier this week,” she said. “You?”
“Not in recent memory, and I’m afraid it won’t be soon. But let’s take an hour. Everybody pick a chair. Reggie, you take the couch.”
There was mild objection, but it was easily overruled by Reeder. They each found a place to rest, and Rogers — who’d stayed in that chair — said, “I don’t see any place for you?”