“We need him. If we can find that prison—free those people—that will go a long way toward righting a grievous wrong. Now, you’re trying to get an interview with Richard Cotton. Why?”

“Because Grady says Cotton is a BTC agent. The bombings were actually the means for concealing their kidnapping program—at least here in the U.S.”

McAllen raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You have been busy.”

“Grady’s convinced that if Cotton sees him, Cotton will realize that the authorities know the truth. He thinks Cotton has some sort of deal with the BTC, but if Cotton knows we’ve changed the terms—hidden him away—he might cooperate instead. Cut a deal with us in exchange for what he knows about the BTC.”

McAllen nodded. “If that’s the case, we need to move him. Cotton isn’t secure where he is. We need to put Grady and Cotton under serious protection, and then let’s hope we can learn enough from them about the BTC to help us dismantle it.”

She frowned. “You want to move Cotton? Where?”

“Florence ADMAX in Colorado. Supermax federal prison. We’ve got most of our high-level terrorists there.”

“And the trial?”

“We’ll need to postpone—Richard Cotton is apparently not a bomber.”

She nodded grimly. Years of work . . . but then, this was even more serious. “We shouldn’t wait to put Grady in front of Cotton, though.”

“Agreed. They’ll have plenty of time to talk en route. Make sure the press doesn’t get wind of Cotton’s transfer. We’ll do it in the middle of the night.”

“But won’t transferring him be risky—with the BTC watching?”

McAllen let a sly grin escape.

 • • •

A surveillance hologram of McAllen and Davis played across Graham Hedrick’s desk as Morrison and several of his sons looked on.

McAllen’s small three-dimensional form grinned. “With what we have in mind, Richard Cotton will be more secure in transit than he is right now.”

Hedrick swept the hologram away with his hand and stared at his blank desktop. He spoke without looking up. “Mr. Morrison, this feud with the government has gone on long enough. Now they’re searching for Hibernity, publicizing our existence, attempting to turn Cotton against us. And Jon Grady is making it even worse. We need to make progress on gravity amplification and soon. We do not have time for this.”

Morrison nodded. “Certain people need to learn memorable lessons.”

Hedrick studied him. The old commando clearly relished the idea of schooling his old leadership. Hedrick nodded. “You’re right.” He cleared his throat. “Tech level nine.”

Morrison and his sons grinned lustily.

“Let our enemies see just how sharp cutting-edge technology can be. Finish this, sweep aside anyone or anything in your path, and bring me Jon Grady—alive. We need his peculiar mind.”

“And Cotton?”

Hedrick considered this. “Public figure or not, if he’s given any information to the government, find out what—then eliminate him. If he’s innocent, take him into custody.”

“The others?”

“Examples should be made.” Hedrick hesitated. “Exothermic decomposition. Make sure there are witnesses.”

Morrison turned to his progeny. “You heard the man.”

They nodded and moved swiftly, eagerly out the doors as Morrison trailed more slowly behind them. He was still in the office as the doors closed, and he turned back toward Hedrick.

Hedrick was gazing out his windows at Mount Fuji, its snowcap gleaming in the hyperrealistic distance. “What is it, Mr. Morrison?”

“Alexa is AWOL. I thought you should know.”

Hedrick sat in silence for several moments, but then he picked up a complex, geared Victorian clock and hurled it against the wall—where it shattered spectacularly.

“When are you going to deal with her?”

Hedrick turned to glare at him, but he couldn’t withstand Morrison’s disgusted expression.

“She disobeys you, and you deliberately try not to see.”

“Enough! You have a job to do, go—”

“Your feelings for her have blinded you. It puts the entire organization in danger.”

“You don’t need to—”

“She illicitly accessed Grady’s Hibernity interrogation records.”

Hedrick’s face dropped. “What? How?”

“She circumvented network restrictions—we’re still trying to figure out how. It appears she might be using her charms on more than just you.”

Hedrick turned another warning look in Morrison’s direction, but it melted away as he realized the implications. “How much did she see?”

“Everything.”

Hedrick put his head in his hands and collapsed in his chair. “God.” He sat like that for several moments before leaning back. “I didn’t want her to know. The world is an ugly place.”

“There’s more.”

Hedrick closed his eyes in resignation.

“In reviewing the breach, the AIs noticed that Grady’s interrogation hologram loops after a few months.”

Hedrick’s eyes opened. “It loops? What do you mean it loops?”

“Somebody’s tampered with it. And not here.”

“You mean at Hibernity?”

Morrison nodded. “It looks like numerous systems there have been compromised. The inmates might be running the asylum.”

Fear stole across Hedrick’s face. “My God . . . Chattopadhyay.”

“I told you, he’s dead. And the moment we get the chance, we’ll open his cell and confirm it.”

Hedrick gazed at the screens all around him. “This entire project is coming apart. If they escape our grip—”

“No one’s escaping anything. And after I take care of this problem, if the civilian authorities want a war, then we’ll make damn sure we win it.”

Hedrick’s breathing calmed. “I can always rely on you, Mr. Morrison.”

Morrison moved to depart. “I’m posting guards around you. See no one—especially her.”

“What are you doing to do?”

“What I should have done long ago.”

CHAPTER 22

Interception

Special Agent Denise Davis held Richard Louis Cotton’s elbow firmly as she escorted him out of the parking garage elevator and into the subbasement of the Dirksen Federal Building. Her way was lined by dozens of FBI tactical officers in body armor, with assault weapons slung across their chests. They scanned sight lines for trouble as they waved her and the escort detail onward, toward the open doors of a waiting armored FBI transport van. It was just one in a line of identical unmarked escort vans standing by.

Cotton shuffled along in leg irons, his hands cuffed before him and chained to his waist. He wore bulky orange body armor to protect him against reprisals from his victims’ loved ones. Cotton’s trademark beard without mustache was carefully trimmed. But his disappointment was obvious when he looked out across the parking level and noticed the lack of news cameras. There was only the long motorcade of FBI vehicles and armed agents.

He cast an irritated look toward her. “A transfer in the wee hours. You won’t silence me, Agent Davis. His message shall still reach the world.”

“It’s not my job to give you an audience.”

“The Lord will find a way.”

“What’s the Lord got to do with you?” She eyed him closely. Difficult to believe Cotton was anything but what he appeared—just another megalomaniac cult leader. But what she’d seen couldn’t be denied. “Watch your step.”

Transport agents pulled Cotton up into the van and escorted him into a small caged section at the front of the passenger bay as he began to cheerfully sing a hymn in a booming voice, offering his hands to his captors.

“Lord, the King of kings art Thou. In Thy presence here we bow; God’s anointed we adore. Worship Thee in holy awe . . .”

They chained Cotton to a railing and locked the cage door on him as Davis took a seat on a bench alongside half a dozen heavily armed agents. The guards even had gas mask pouches on their harnesses. No one was taking any chances.