Dakota nodded. The derailment in Montana. Obsidite canisters stolen. It had been the beginning of everything—the reason Jones, Inc., was involved in any of this.
“There was a man involved,” Ham continued. “Working from the inside. Called himself James Cooper.”
“I know the name.” Dakota had read the after-action reports. Cooper had been a ghost—appeared, caused chaos, disappeared.
“Officially, James Cooper was a CIA operative declared dead maybe fifteen, sixteen years ago. But not dead. Logan Thorne says that the CIA tried to have him killed—that CIA Director Crowley was behind it.” Ham’s voice was grim. “They think, however, that this identity also belongs to the man calling himself Alan Martin. The name, the background, the credentials—all fabricated.”
“Crowley—the guy connected to the plot to kill President White during the inauguration. The one the VP-elect orchestrated.”
“Yeah. Somehow, Martin also turned up during that time, working for the Bratva. We’re not sure how, but he was apprehended, then escaped, and since then has plotted or orchestrated two more attempts on our leadership—a smallpox release at Disney World a few years ago?—”
“The happiest place on earth?”
“Yeah, and then an EMP bomb on Air Force One around the same time.”
“He’s creative.”
“So creative he nearly pulled off the nuclear waste poisoning of the entire country of Lauchtenland during a European NFL game a couple years ago.”
“And now he’s making lethal Roombas.”
Ham nodded.
“This guy ever going to quit?”
“We need to find him. And stop him. For good.”
Dakota stared out the window. The bridge gleamed in the afternoon light, beautiful and indifferent. “Why? Why President White specifically?”
“We don’t know.” Ham’s voice was heavy with frustration. “Whatever grudge Martin has against White, he’s kept it buried. Personal? Political? Something that happened years ago? We’re digging, but we haven’t found it yet.”
“But he won’t stop.”
“No.” Ham met Dakota’s eyes. “He won’t stop until President White is gone. And I don’t know what comes next. But I know this isn’t over.”
Dakota turned back to the corridor, to the doors that led to the operating rooms, to the silence that was slowly driving him insane.
None of it mattered right now. Not Martin. Not the president. Not the next attack or the one after that.
All that mattered was the woman behind those doors.
He closed his eyes. Please. Let her live.
The surgeon emerged forty minutes later.
Dakota’s heart stopped. He couldn’t read her face—professional neutrality, the kind doctors learned to project regardless of the news they carried.
“Mr. Rivers?”
He stepped forward. “Yes.”
“She’s out of surgery.”
The words didn’t register at first. He’d been braced for the worst, for the news that would shatter him, and the relief hit so hard he had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself.
“The bullet damaged her spleen,” the surgeon continued. “We had to remove it. She’ll need to take it easy for a while—the spleen helps filter blood and fight infection, so she’ll be more susceptible to certain illnesses until her body adjusts. But she’ll recover fully. She’s young, healthy. She should recover.”
Dakota let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for hours. “Can I see her?”
