Before I could respond, he kissed me firmly. Not a goodbye, but an affirmation. My fingers curled around his wrists, feeling the steady pulse beneath his skin.
Marcus gave the signal. "Time."
Michael stepped back, shoulders squared and chin lifted. "Move on my mark."
Miles grabbed Michael's arm. "What if they're not here to arrest us? What if this is Asphodel's response? Clean-up protocol?"
"If they wanted us dead, we'd be dead already. This is too public."
Michael's hand settled on the door handle, knuckles whitening briefly against the tarnished metal. He glanced back at us, his gaze lingering on me for a heartbeat longer than the others.
"Ready?"
We nodded in unison.
Outside, the forest had transformed into a military theater. Tactical vehicles formed a broken perimeter at the clearing's edge. Personnel in FBI tactical gear maintained careful distances, weapons visible but lowered. Drones circled overhead, their cameras swiveling to capture our emergence from multiple angles.
We descended to ground level in Michael's choreographed sequence.
"Hands where we can see them!" The command cut through the clearing, no longer amplified by a megaphone but shouted by a figure at the nearest vehicle.
We complied in unison, raising our arms to shoulder height, palms forward. The position made me feel acutely vulnerable.
Agents advanced from multiple directions. Their faces remained partially obscured behind tactical gear. Only their eyes were distinctive; in those, I saw something unexpected: uncertainty.
They approached as a group, tightening the circle around us. I fought an instinct to run.
An agent addressed me directly. "Alexander Kessler?"
My throat was suddenly dry. "Yes."
"Michael McCabe? Marcus McCabe? Miles McCabe?" He continued the roll call, receiving affirmative responses from each brother.
"Targets confirmed. Perimeter secure."
Targets. We had become variables and coordinates in an operational equation. The terminology Asphodel used for its victims now applied to us.
Behind the advancing agents, a figure emerged from the largest vehicle—a man in civilian clothes rather than tactical gear. He moved unhurriedly through the formation, hands clasped behind his back.
His suit was charcoal gray, and he wore a navy tie with a subtle pattern. "I'm Special Agent Makler. I'm the agent in charge of this operation."
Marcus narrowed his eyes. "Are we under arrest?"
Makler studied each of us in turn. "That depends on what happens in the next twenty-four hours. Everyone's watching what's going on in Washington."
Miles dropped his hands slightly. "Are you waiting to see how Evelyn Shaw's testimony plays out?"
"Keep your hands visible, Dr. McCabe," Makler instructed and didn't answer Miles's question. "Standard procedure. Nothing personal."
Miles raised an eyebrow, slipping into his clinical language. "So this is a provisional arrest? Fascinating cognitive dissonance at work. You're following protocol while simultaneously acknowledging its inadequacy for this situation. How do you reconcile that internal conflict, Agent Makler?"
"What I'm doing, Dr. McCabe, is following orders during unprecedented circumstances. I suggest you make all of this as easy as possible." He turned toward a nearby agent. "Secure them for transport. Standard restraint protocols."
The team produced zip ties and approached us in pairs.
I turned to the agent beside me. "Is this necessary?"
Makler replied for him. "Unfortunately, yes."
