“Yup.”
“Same with domestic incidents, correct? School shootings. Assassination attempts.” I hesitated. “Even if it’s in the rearview mirror, we can always trace a properly sold gun.”
I paused again, and the music changed. Beyond the table, a lightshow played by the rooftop pool. “But what if we couldn’t?”
“Couldn’t trace a gun?” Kemp asked.
“What if someone released guns with serial numbers that meant nothing? Gibberish.”
“Other countries would stop using eTrace,” Cassie said. “Domestically, people would lose faith in our ability to do investigations.”
Poulton’s whole body had become rigid. “You think someone is trying to do that?”
“I do,” I said. “I think they’re doing a dry run of guns south of the border. A test before they dump more guns like this on American soil.”
“That would take a real insider,” Kemp said. “Someone who knows how to trick the system. Who’s worked with manufacturers.”
“When we first spoke,” I said to Kemp, “everything was need-to-know.”
“I remember,” Kemp said. “You were worried about a leak.”
“And when I asked you—is your guy O’Reilly briefed in—you said no one was briefed in. Per my request.”
“Right again,” Kemp said.
“So you never told O’Reilly what we were tracking in that U-Haul?” I asked. “Or why?”
“I made something up,” Kemp said, crossing his arms over his chest. “What are you getting at?”
“After the leapfrog process, your agent met me in a parking lot of a restaurant. He started pinging me with questions. Were we after domestic terror? Ghost guns? Militia?”
“You tell him anything?” Kemp asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “But he started guessing. One thing after another. Before I walked away, he said, ‘Serial number mismatch.’ I didn’t think much of it at the time.”
“What are you implying?” Kemp said. “O’Reilly is dirty? He and Freddie were together?”
“Is he on a case?” I asked.
“No,” Kemp said. “He’s home in D.C. A week off. Told me himself.”
I held out my phone. I had texted Agent O’Reilly a half hour ago, outside the ice cream shop.
“You just said it would take an insider. Flooding the market with guns. All serial numbered. Seemingly legit. They get out into the world. Start coming up in shootings.”
“And our ability to chase them,” Cassie said, her voice tight, “starts shitting the bed.”
Kemp took out his cell and made a call.
“Yeah,” we heard him say. “Well, get his ass up. Have him call me.”
He hung up.
“You’re waking O’Reilly?” Poulton asked.
“Our head of Tech,” Kemp said. “I want a trace on O’Reilly’s phone. Before this goes any further.”
“Is he on any other cases?” Poulton asked.
