Wilmot stood motionless, hands behind his back.

There was a soft whine as the conveyor fed into the central chamber of the X-ray machine. The whine stopped.

Special Agent Klotz approached and stood at Officer Grandison’s shoulder. The two women stared intently at the screen.

After a moment, the police officer shook her head. “I don’t like it,” she said.

“What do you see?” the Secret Service agent said.

“The walls don’t look right.” Officer Grandison tapped the screen. “See? Too thick.”

“If I may—” Collier said.

Wilmot cut him off. “Shut the hell up, John,” he said smiling broadly. “Let the professionals do their jobs.”

“Zoom it,” the Secret Service agent said. She stared for a long time. “I don’t like it either,” she said finally. She turned to Collier and said, “You were going to say something.”

Collier looked at Wilmot. Wilmot gave him the slightest nod. He wasn’t opposed to Collier talking. He just wanted to make sure that Agent Klotz believed she was driving the train here.

“If I may . . .” Collier cleared his throat. “If you look at a propane tank or a compressed air tank, helium, argon, welding gases, things of that nature, they’re always single-walled tanks. Refrigerant tanks used to be like that. But in recent years, now that we’ve transitioned away from Freon to R410A, the thermal characteristics of the compressed . . . well, I won’t bore you. The point is that we’ve moved to double-walled tanks. Keeps the refrigerant temperature more stable. So, yeah, it probably does look funny if you’re used to single-walled tanks.”

Klotz held up one finger at Collier, then picked up a phone off the desk next to Officer Grandison and said, “Can you get me Ron?” She smiled blandly at Wilmot for a few moments. Then, “Ron, hey, Shanelle here. R410A refrigerant. Is it stored in double-walled tanks? Sometimes? Okay, thanks.”

Collier gave her a weak smile. “I wouldn’t lie ut Q17;t lie to you.”

Wilmot did his best to project a telepathic mental message to Collier to shut his mouth. Fortunately Agent Klotz spoke before Collier had a chance to say something he shouldn’t. “Here’s what I’m going to do,” she said. “I’m going to authorize entry with the refrigerant. But I’ll need to accompany you personally to your destination. Once you reach your work space, I’ll detail two agents to supervise you. At such time as you need to access the refrigerant, you will need clearance from me. Got it?”

“Fine,” Wilmot said.

“But before we do all that, we’re going to run one last test,” she said.

Wilmot felt his pulse quicken.

“Refrigerant’s nontoxic, isn’t it? I mean, in small doses?”

“Wilmot swallowed. “Ah, correct, ma’am.”

“Then show us. Let the gas out and take a small breath.”

Wilmot hesitated, looked at Collier, who then reached toward one of the canisters.

“Not that one,” Klotz said. “The other one.”

Wilmot considered what to do. There really wasn’t anything he could do. It would just play out however it played out. He inhaled, knowing he might not have a chance to breathe again for a while.

Then Collier turned the petcock, and the tank hissed angrily.

41

TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA

Verhoven was pacing back and forth in the living room. Tillman had given Lorene another pint of saline. He checked her belly, but it still wasn’t rigid. And her breathing was okay.

So whatever was going on, she wasn’t bleeding to death. But she wasn’t doing well, either.

Tillman had brought the man and his two children downstairs. The two girls were watching a cartoon on the TV while their father sat on the couch rubbing his hands together and rocking back and forth. The older girl had stopped crying, but her face was streaked with tears, and she looked as if she might vomit at any second.

The man stopped rubbing his hands for a moment. “I’m an ER doc. This woman needs to be in a hospital.”

“Shut up,” Verhoven said.

“Maybe we should let him take a look,” Tillman said.

Verhoven sighed, then nodded his okay. The doctor fetched his bag of medical equipment before Tillman’s watchful eyes, then began a careful examination of Lorene’s wound.

“How long since she got shot?” he said.

“A few hours,” Verhoven said.

The doctor shook his head. “She’s bleeding internally. It’s not a gusher or she’d be dead. But she needs surgery.̶n aaaaaaaa T‡1;

“Her belly’s not rigid,” Tillman said, then explained, “I was a combat medic.”

The doctor pointed to Lorene’s lower abdomen. “Have you been peeing a lot?”

Lorene nodded feebly. Her eyes were dull now.

“Blood in the urine?”

“Yes.”

The doctor turned to Tillman and said, “A bullet fragment probably punctured the bladder or one of the kidneys. Might have cut the vaginal artery or the inferior suprarenal. The blood’s evacuating through the bladder. It’s not good. If the bleeding isn’t stopped—and I mean pretty soon—she’s going to die.”

Verhoven let out a groan, as though he’d been punched in the stomach. He pointed at the man with his trembling finger. “You save her! You save her, you little son of a bitch.”

The doctor looked at Tillman as though appealing for help. It was obvious he could see that Tillman was the only seemingly calm, rational voice in the room right now.

“Let’s just all calm down,” Tillman said.

Verhoven sat down next to his wife and began stroking her hair. “It’s okay, Lorene. You’re going to be okay. The doctor’s going to figure something out.”

Verhoven was looking more unstable by the moment. And talking about Lorene’s situation was not helping things. They were waiting for a phone call, presumably with further instructions. Verhoven wouldn’t say exactly, and Tillman didn’t want to press him. Instead he directed his questions to the doctor.

“Why does a normal suburban guy need so much security?” he asked.

“That’s not my bailiwick,” the man said. Then he looked as though he was sorry he’d spoken.

“Oh?” Tillman said. “Your wife’s a security nut?”

The doctor squinted at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

Tillman studied the man for a moment. “Why do you say that?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what my wife does for a living,” the doctor said. “The day of the State of the Union address?”

Tillman walked to the mantel and began picking up family photos. There were several pictures of the man with his two girls and a woman who was obviously his wife. She was a petite woman, very attractive, racially mixed. Then he saw an award certificate with a picture of the wife by herself, posed in front of a blue backdrop dominated by a large official seal.

Tillman studied the certificate. The wife wore a gun and had some kind of badge on her belt. Now the pieces were beginning to fall into place. “So this is your wife, huh?”

The doctor said nothing, but his silence answered Tillman’s question.

At the bottom of the certificate was a label, which Tillman read out loud, hoping that Gideon was close enough to pick up audio from theera a from the earpiece he had stuffed in his pocket.

“United States Secret Service,” Tillman said. “Your wife is Special Agent Shanelle Klotz.”

The cop wasn’t very talkative, but Gideon kept trying. At first Gideon had told him the truth: They were pursuing homegrown terrorists who had taken a family hostage. But when the cop pretended to believe him, and suggested they both drive down to the precinct to file a report, Gideon gave up. He could see things from the cop’s perspective: a dirty, scruffy, ragged guy with a gun insists he’s pursuing terrorists in the suburbs with his ex-con brother and needs the cop’s help. Hell, he wouldn’t help himself in that situation. So he stopped talking about Verhoven and started making small talk—if only to pass the time. But the cop was being uncooperative and grumpy.