Two agencies that don’t put their names on doors.
No one argues jurisdiction.
No one slows it down.
Attempted kidnapping of a protected minor connected to a multi-state criminal conspiracy has a magical effect on paperwork.
“We go wide,” the U.S. Attorney says. “Not surgical. Not quiet.”
“Good,” I reply. “He’s already running.”
“Warrants?” someone asks.
“Emergency,” she says. “Phones. Properties. Vehicles. Associates. Shell companies. We tear the web.”
“Arrests?”
“Everyone we can legally touch.”
I watch the clock.
At 14:12, the first warrants are signed.
At 14:19, the first doors come off hinges.
At 14:31, one of Rourke’s accountants starts crying.
At 14:44, one of his logistics men tries to jump out a window.
At 15:03, we find the safe house.
Empty.
Of course it is.
“He’s ghosting,” an agent says.
“No,” I say. “He’s bleeding.”
My mother’s arrest took the shield.
Trying to grab the baby gave us the sword.
My phone rings.
Saint.
“They’ll keep coming,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree. “But now they’re doing it blind.”
“What about him?”
“We’re collapsing everything he needs to exist,” I say. “Money. Transport. Cover. Friends.”
“That doesn’t stop a desperate man.”
“No,” I say. “It makes him sloppy.”
