"What?"
"Your sat phone. I know someone who can help." Her fingers found the device, pulled it free. “She lives close. And she’s resourceful. If she can’t come herself, she’ll send someone she trusts. Doc’s amazing."
"Sarah, we can't involve civilians?—"
"She's not a civilian." He heard her cupping the phone against her body to shield any light. "My old mentor from Georgetown. Economics professor, but way more than that. She used to be some kind of agent. Classified work. The kind nobody talks about."
"An economics professor? Sarah?—"
"Thermal's moving into position," someone called from above. "Two more minutes."
Griff's options evaporated. Needles was too far away. His team was on the other coast. Local law enforcement was probably compromised. They were out of time.
No choice. They were out of moves.
"Do it," he said.
Her fingers moved over the phone, dialing from memory in the darkness.
Even with the volume low, a woman's voice carried in the tunnel: "This had better be important."
"Doc, it's Sarah. Are you at your DC house?"
“I am.”
Griff took the phone. "Ma'am, this is Sarah's protection detail. We're pinned under Route 50, mile marker eighteen. Six-plus hostiles with thermal inbound. We need immediate extraction."
A pause. "How badly are you hurt?"
How did she—? "Shoulder graze. Mobile but bleeding."
"Twelve minutes. When you hear Vivaldi's 'Winter,' move toward the sound. Fast."
The line went dead.
"Twelve minutes?" Sarah grabbed his arm. "We don't have?—"
"Quiet." Griff killed the screen, plunging them back into darkness. "She knows what she's doing. That wasn't a civilian's response."
Footsteps directly overhead now. He heard the distinctive scrape of someone setting up overwatch positions. They were bracketing the culvert, textbook flush-and-clear. "Thermal's moving into position," someone called from above. "Sixty seconds."
Griff's hand found Sarah's in the darkness, squeezing once. Move time.
"Follow me," he whispered. "Hand on my belt. Don't let go."
They crawled deeper into the culvert, Griff counting his paces. The concrete tube had to connect to something—storm drains didn't simply end. Twenty yards in, his hand hit metal instead of concrete. A junction.
"Feel that?" He guided Sarah's hand to the perpendicular pipe. "Maintenance tunnel. Goes under the highway."
"How do you know?"
"Different material. Older construction. This is original infrastructure."
Behind them, flashlight beams probed the culvert entrance. They had seconds.
Griff pulled off his jacket, balling it up.
"What are you?—"
