WELL DONE, McClure," Hugh Garner said. "As if we didn't have enough trouble, you've given us another girl-approximately the same age and weight as the First Daughter-who's also missing. She's either dead or wishes she was; at the very least, she's severely maimed." He slapped three sheets of paper he was holding. "But according to the ME's report, we have no way of identifying her." He smirked, looking from Jack to Nina. "Which one of you lovelies is going to volunteer to tell Edward Carson and his wife this bit of inspiring news?"

"I will," Jack said. "I call him on an hourly basis, anyway."

"One of these days I trust you'll surprise me, Jack." Garner tossed aside Schiltz's chilling report. "But, no, I need you with me, so, Nina, it'll be you who provides the Carsons with this morning's update."

Nothing on Nina's face betrayed what she might be feeling. She was dressed today in a smart suit over a blouse with pearl buttons up to her neck, where a tasteful cameo was pinned. How a woman could appear demure and sexy at the same time was beyond Jack.

They were grouped around a desk in the makeshift command center at Langley Fields. The desk was littered with the day's early dispatches from the FBI, CIA, DIA, NSA, as well as every regional and municipal law enforcement agency that had been dragooned by Homeland Security into the search for Alli Carson.

The trio was the eye of a carefully controlled storm of activity that raged around them. No less than thirty operatives were crammed into the headmistress's outer office, working the computers that were hooked into the nation's deepest surveillance networks. Many were simultaneously on the phone, distributing phoned-in leads that other operatives in the field needed to run down. Bags from McDonald's, KFC, barbecue joints, along with half-empty boxes of subgum chow mein and moo goo gai pan were strewn about. Garbage cans were piled high with empty soda cans. The greasy odors of stale food, sweat, and fear made a permanent fug impossible to escape.

One of these drones had accessed the national missing persons database for the entire District, Virginia, and Maryland, but the printout was useless. Save for the usual slew of runaways from Omaha to Amarillo who had disappeared into the bowels of the District, there was nothing to help them.

"Let's get to work," Garner said to Jack as Nina left them.

He led Jack out via the rear exit that gave out onto a dimly lit corridor, down a short flight of concrete steps to the custodian's area. Here was a warren of workshops and storerooms containing all the many implements and supplies required to keep an upper-tier college like Langley Fields looking shipshape for the parents who paid tens of thousands for the education of their sons and daughters. No fine school could afford to look shabby, and with a large campus like this one, the maintenance was constant.

Clearly, however, the custodial staff was elsewhere because when Garner led Jack into the largest of the workshops, it was deserted, save for two hooded men and their armed guards. They were sitting on opposite sides of the room, facing away from each other. Between them, along the wall, was an oversized soapstone sink and several workbenches above which hung pegboards thick with handsaws, hammers, awls, levels, metal rulers, and planes. Screwdrivers, chisels, pliers, and wrenches of every imaginable size were clustered in one area. Some of the benches had vises bolted to them. The smells of glue and oiled metal were strong in the air. Between the pegboard sections were windows that afforded a peaceful view out over the rose garden, now an army of thorny miniature stick soldiers on a half-frozen parade ground.

"What is this?" Jack said, alarmed.

Garner pulled him back into the hallway for a moment.

"We've brought in the co-leaders of the First American Secular Revivalists," he said in a low voice. "A number of FASR members have vanished, only to resurface as part of E-Two. At the very least, FASR is a training ground for E-Two terrorists. In our estimation, it's a legit front for the revolutionary group."

"Brought in? Are these men criminals?"

Ignoring Jack's question, Garner concluded: "Keep your mouth shut, bright boy, and you just might learn something."

Returning inside, Garner signaled to the guards, who jerked the prisoners' chairs around, pulled off their hoods. The men blinked, disoriented. They stared at each other, then at Garner and Jack, their eyes wide open. They were clearly terrified.

"Who are you?" one of the men asked. "Why are we here?"

Garner strode over to the soapstone sink, inserted a rubber stopper in the drain, turned on the cold-water faucet full-blast. As the water began to fill the sink, he said, "Peter Link, Christopher Armitage, you're members of E-Two, the missionary secularist terror group."

"What?" both men said nearly simultaneously. "We're not!"

Garner stared down at the rising water. "Are you telling me you're not missionary secularists?"

"We believe that organized religion-all organized religion-is a danger to modern-day society," Chris Armitage, the man on the right said.

"But we're not terrorists," Peter Link said from the opposite side of the room.

"You're not, huh?" Garner signaled to Link's guard, who unshackled him, hauled him up by the back of his collar, frog-marched him over to where Garner was standing. Garner turned off the cold-water tap. The sink was filled to the brim.

Link stared from Garner's face to the gently rippling water. "You can't be serious… What do you think this is, a police state?"

Garner slammed his fist into Link's stomach. As the man doubled over, Garner grabbed both sides of his head, jammed it into the sink. Water fountained up, foaming as Link began to thrash.

"You can't do this!" Armitage shouted. "This is America-we're guaranteed the right of free speech!"

Garner hauled the sputtering, choking Link out of the water. The guard grasped his arms as Garner turned to Armitage, dug in his jacket pocket, flipped open his ID for the other man to see. "As far as you and your pal here are concerned, I am America."

Stowing his ID, he got back to work torturing Peter Link. But as Link went under for the second time, Jack put a hand on Garner's arm.

"This isn't the way," he said softly. "You're being foolish."

He sensed that was the wrong thing to say. Garner kept his hands on the back of Link's submerged head as he glared into Jack's face.

"Get your fucking hands off me, or I swear to God you'll be next."

"You brought me in for my help," Jack said quietly. "I'm giving you my opinion-"

"I didn't bring you in, McClure. In fact, I fought to keep you out. But the new president will have his way, even if it's the wrong way."

Using the edge of his hand, Jack struck Garner's elbow at the ulna nerve, breaking his grip on Peter Link. Jack hauled him out of the water. Tears streamed out of Link's eyes, and he vomited water all over himself.

"Jesus Christ!" Armitage shouted, terrified.

Garner broke away from Jack, stalked over to Armitage, yelled in his face, "You don't get to use those words!" He was seething, his shoulders bunched, his hands curled into tight fists. A pulse beat spastically in his forehead.

Jack, seeing that Link was semiconscious, laid him down on the floor. He knelt beside him, checked his pulse, which was erratic and weak. Looking up, he said to Garner, "I sure as hell hope you have a doctor on premises."

Garner opened his mouth to say something, apparently thought better of it, hauled out his cell phone. Not long after, the door swung open and a physician appeared. He hurried over to where Peter Link lay in a puddle of water and his own vomit.

Jack rose and said to Garner, "Let's take a walk."