"If Kinsman is operational, and if he's coordinating multiple groups, then he's planning something large. Not a statement. Not a symbolic act. Something that requires logistics, timing, and resources."
"We know," Winthrow said.
"Do we?" The CIA man's expression didn't change. "Because if we're right, and if these groups are converging, then we're not looking at isolated incidents."
The room stayed silent.
"And if that's true," the CIA man said, "then forty-eight hours might not be enough time."
Winthrow picked up the phone.
17
They stepped out of the hotel into the cold Michigan night.
The sky hung low and heavy, the kind of gray-black ceiling that promised snow before morning.
Simmons winced. He'd wrapped ice in a hand towel and pressed it against the side of his face on the drive back. Now the swelling had set in fully. One eye was blackened, a cheekbone had bruised purple, and his lips were split and swollen.
Joe glanced at him. "How's the head?"
"Best I can come up with is that it’s still attached," Simmons said.
They reached the truck and Joe slid behind the wheel.
They had gotten a call from Winthrow, and she had given them their marching orders in no uncertain terms:Find something. Anything. And find it fast.
They'd lost their CI. The operation was compromised. Their timeline had just shrunk from days to hours.
Simmons let out a slow breath, fogging the air. "What's the plan now?"
"We eat," Joe said.
Simmons blinked. "My teeth are too loose."
“Soup, then. You're no good half concussed and running on vending-machine potato chips."
Joe keyed the ignition. Simmons slid into the passenger seat and let the door close softly behind him, careful to avoid jarring his ribs.
They pulled out onto the road, the truck's headlights cutting through the dark and across empty stretches of county forest. A sign ahead advertised FOOD • COFFEE • OPEN 24 HOURS, its neon arrow buzzing in the wind.
Joe took the turn.
The diner sat alone on a bend in the road, glowing like an island in the emptiness. A couple of pickups in the lot. Semis parked across the gravel shoulder. The kind of place that had been here fifty years and would still be here fifty more.
Inside, light and warmth poured out the moment they opened the door.
The waitress looked up once, clocked Simmons' bruised face, and made the kind of judgment only someone who'd worked night shifts for twenty years could make:None of my business.
They found a booth near the back. Simmons slid in stiffly.
The waitress came over. "Coffee?"
They both nodded.
She poured two cups and walked away.
Joe looked around the diner—two truckers arguing softly at the counter, a couple in hunting jackets finishing their late dinner, the radio playing something indistinguishable near the register.
