“In the war room. Breathing fire.”

She could see what he meant when the elevator doors opened, and she saw Griffin.

“I guess you’re happy,” he spat out bitterly when he saw her.

“Not happy. But a little more … satisfied.”

Griffin cursed and walked over to the uncovered windows where there had once been a row of offices. The sun had just set, and the lights of the city twinkled in the distance. He called over his shoulder to Metcalf. “Anything in those prison files?”

Metcalf stepped forward. “A few things to follow up on. We won’t know until we—”

A high-pitched beep sounded from the phone-company technician’s laptop.

Kendra’s eyes flew up to the large projected map, which had remained unchanged all day long. But as the beeping continued, she noticed that a pulsing red dot now appeared on the map.

“What does that mean?” she yelled over the noise.

“I’ll check.” The technician, who had passed much of the day hovering near the desk of Griffin’s attractive assistant, snapped to attention and ran back to his laptop. “This is it.” His voice was filled with wonder. “One of the phones has made contact with the network.”

Griffin ran back from the windows. “Where?”

“Northeast of the city.” He picked up his phone. “I’ll see how far we can narrow the location.”

San Quentin State Penitentiary

Death-Watch Cell

COLBY STARED AT THE NEW JEANS and denim work shirt that one of his death-watch guards, Tom Lester, handed him. “What’s this?”

“Put them on, please.”

Colby raised his eyebrows. “Please? That’s the first time I’ve heard that word in all the years I’ve been here. Dead Man Walking evidently has its privileges.”

The guard pointed to the crisp new clothing. “It’s routine. It’s almost time. Do it.”

“Funny. A costume for an execution. May I have some privacy while I change?”

“Not a chance.”

Colby nodded to Lester and his fellow guard, Patrick Nevis. “Of course. The death watch. Can’t have me killing myself before the big show.” He pointed to his left. “The execution chamber is just on the other side of this wall, isn’t it?”

“Just put on the clothes.”

Colby turned his back on the guards, stripped out of his prison uniform, and pulled on the jeans and shirt. He turned back around and adjusted the collar. “Blue really isn’t my color, you know.”

“Sit down, Colby.”

He smiled and sat on the edge of the bunk. “Be nice. You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

FBI Field Office

San Diego

“GROUP LEADERS, PREPARE TO MOBILIZE your response teams. We have an active target.” Griffin whirled away from the gathered agents and leaned toward the telephone-company technician, who was still on the phone and scribbling furiously on a Post-it note. “Got it?”

The technician tore off the note and handed it to Griffin. “That phone is most likely within thirty yards of this address. They just confirmed it at the office.”

“It’s 26613 Breaker Drive,” Griffin said. “Get the response teams rolling. I want the names of every resident on the street. Reade, let’s see if there’s a match with anyone on the suspect database you’ve been compiling.”

Reade was already pounding her keyboard. “I have the resident list up. Cross-referencing now.”

Kendra stepped closer and looked over Reade’s shoulder at the dozens of names displayed on the laptop screen.

She went rigid with shock. “No,” she whispered.

Lynch quickly moved closer to her. “What is it?”

She shook her head dazedly. “It’s crazy.” She moistened her lips. “It has to be a coincidence. The third name on the list. Dean Halley. A history professor. He works with my mother. He was with me on the bridge that night. But I can’t believe that he’s the…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to comprehend and connect the dots. “But he does have a prison record, and it might not be for the reason he told me. But he was so damn … plausible.”

Lynch snapped at Griffin. “It’s 26613 Breaker. That’s the target.” He turned toward Reade. “Pull up a photo of Dean Halley and make sure all teams have it. If you can’t immediately pull up a driver’s license or passport photo for him, check the UC San Diego Web site.”

Kendra barely heard him, her eyes were still locked on that screen.

Dean Halley.

San Quentin Penitentiary

“COZY.” COLBY SMILED AS HE STEPPED through an oval door and was escorted by his three guards into the octagonal execution chamber. It was approximately seven-and-a-half feet in diameter and centered around a single table. Five large windows separated the chamber from the witness area, which was populated by forty-five journalists, politicians, and so-called reputable citizens, some of whom included victims’ family members.

Colby didn’t attempt to make eye contact with any of the witnesses as he was led to the table and strapped down with nylon restraints.

He looked up at the execution leader, Ron Hoyle, a stocky man with a thick moustache. “I have a final statement to make.”

“You waived that right, Mr. Colby.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Hoyle glanced at the warden, who was standing next to the state attorney general in the back of the witness room. Salazar slowly nodded.

“Okay,” Hoyle said. “Go ahead. Make your statement from there. The witnesses can hear you.”

“I really don’t care whether they can hear me or not. It’s on my chest.”

“What?”

“My final statement is on my chest. Please unbutton my shirt.”

Hoyle hesitated.

“Or tear it open. Makes no difference to me. I won’t be using this shirt much longer.”

Clearly thrown by this break with protocol, Hoyle froze for a few seconds. He then leaned over and unbuttoned the top two buttons of Colby’s denim shirt. He pulled apart the fabric, glanced at Colby’s chest, then quickly let go of him in disgust.

Colby laughed.

Hoyle angrily turned toward the physician, who was standing with the cardiac sensors. “Proceed.”

Breaker Drive

San Diego

THE FBI AND THE SAN DIEGO PD had already barricaded off the 26600 block of Breaker Drive by the time Kendra and Lynch arrived. Agents had quietly surrounded Dean’s house, while uniformed officers escorted perplexed neighbors from their homes to barricades at the end of the block.

Kendra and Lynch got out of his car and ran for the other side of an FBI armored van parked in the cul-de-sac four houses away from Dean’s.

Griffin’s gaze was trained on the one-story, Spanish-style house through his binoculars. “That’s Dean Halley’s car in the driveway, but there are no other signs that he’s home.”

“He also has a motorcycle,” Kendra said. “He keeps it in the garage. You can see the skid marks he leaves at the top of the driveway.”

Griffin nodded. “We’ll wait for SDPD to finish securing the street behind his house before we make any kind of move. Anything else you can tell us about him?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Except that I can’t freaking believe this.”

“Believe it. According to his record, Halley was in the Special Forces in Afghanistan during his military stint and damn good at removing the Taliban from his path.”

A tech officer handed Griffin a tablet computer in a reinforced plastic case. It offered a greenish night-vision live view of Dean’s house.

Griffin turned to Kendra. “If you’re up for it, I want you to try to call his home number.”

She stared at him. “You want me to call and talk to him?”

“Only when I give the word. He knows you, and he hasn’t already seen us. Your caller ID won’t raise any red flags. If he answers, keep him talking until our team can break in and rush him.” He gave her a cool glance. “You appear reluctant. After all, it’s for his safety as well as that of the personnel on the scene.”