Five down.
The room erupted.
Not cheering. Not celebration. Just a collective exhale, a release of tension so profound it felt physical. People slumped in their chairs. Hands came up to cover faces. Someone laughed, a short, sharp sound that was more relief than humor.
Carver turned to Jenkins and held out his hand.
Jenkins shook it.
"Good work," Carver said quietly.
Jenkins gestured toward Ivy. “Ivy Harper, meet Director Carver.” Jenkins turned back to the man. “She’s the one we all should be thanking.”
Ivy shook her head. “Joe Reacher. That’s the name you need to remember.”
Carver nodded and Ivy stood there, watching the screens, watching the blue dots converge on the red dots, watching the threat markers blink out one by one.
Five devices.
Five targets.
All neutralized.
She thought about Joe, somewhere in Michigan, covered in dust and blood, walking away from a collapsed mine with a metal case in his hand.
She thought about the phone call, his voice rough and urgent, the way he'd rattled off names and locations like he was reading from a list, like he'd memorized every detail because he knew there wouldn't be time to check.
Ivy looked around the room, spotted the members of the task force Joe had mentioned.
All of them had been here tonight.
Her eyes moved across the room, studying faces, watching body language, looking for something she couldn't name but would recognize when she saw it.
Someone in this room had tried to kill Joe.
Someone in this room had helped Kinsman.
Someone in this room was a traitor.
Ivy thought about how every traitor made the same mistake.
They always left a trail.
Always.
Ivy looked at Jenkins. He was talking to Carver now, his voice low, his expression serious.
She looked at the screens, at the five targets, all secure now, all safe.
She looked at the people in the room, at the relief on their faces, the exhaustion, the quiet pride of a job well done.
And she thought:I know how to find the mole.
37
The apartment was quiet in the way expensive places often were.
Wide windows looked out over the Potomac, lights from across the water smeared into gold and white reflections on the glass. The furniture was modern without being daring, chosen by someone who valued quality and permanence over taste. Real wood. Real leather. Art that had been framed by a professional and hung with a level. A bookshelf held hardcovers arranged by height, spines uncracked, decorative rather than read.
