"Matthew—"
"The message specified isolation. Non-negotiable." My composure fractured despite my efforts to maintain control. "If I arrive with company, they'll execute him."
A minute of silence passed. When Michael resumed speaking, his tone was firm. "You require phantom support. Observation only unless everything disintegrates."
"Manageable without alerting federal attention?"
"I can shadow your route from four blocks distance. Secured communications and civilian transportation. If violence erupts, I'm forty-five seconds out."
I pressed my eyes shut and gripped the counter until my knuckles whitened. Forty-five seconds stretched into eternitywhen bullets started flying, but it surpassed walking into a deathtrap entirely solo. "Execute."
"Already mobile. Additional requirements?"
My mind worked through an inventory. Gear. Intelligence. Evacuation routes. "I'll contact Marcus."
"Of course. Anything else?"
"Hope this isn't as catastrophic as it appears."
Our call ended. I immediately reached Marcus, who responded before the second tone.
"Michael briefed me via text. What's needed?"
No pleasantries. No wasted energy on comfort or false optimism. Marcus recognized that sentiment was a luxury until Dorian returned safely.
"Intelligence on the Federal complex. Architectural schematics, security systems, electrical infrastructure—anything providing tactical advantage." I headed toward my bedroom, already calculating essential equipment. "Plus surveillance. Visual confirmation on every access point and every vehicle within six blocks."
"James is accessing structural databases now. I can position thermal reconnaissance on three elevations within ninety minutes." I heard the computer keys clattering through the connection. "Matthew, you recognize this is manipulation."
"Affirmative."
"They want your presence for specific reasons. This isn't about ransom or negotiation."
I stopped at my bedroom threshold, phone pressed against my ear. "Then what?"
"Demonstration. They're proving they can acquire anyone, anywhere, anytime. Including those we treasure."
"Marcus—"
"We're covering you, brother. All of us. But exercise intelligence. Martyrs rescue nobody."
The call ended. I remained in my bedroom doorway, staring at the disheveled bedding where Dorian had rested against me hours earlier. The indentation from his head still marked the pillow.
The digital clock beside the bed read 10:49 PM. Seventy-one minutes until my appearance at the Federal Building. Each second pulsed against my eardrums.
I knelt beside the dresser and worked my fingers along its base until I found the concealed release. The false bottom yielded with a whisper, revealing the gear I'd hoped never to use again. Emergency supplies that belonged to a different version of myself, one who'd out-maneuvered death in Afghan valleys.
The cloned flash drive came first, smaller than my thumbnail but containing enough evidence to incinerate Hoyle's entire network. Dorian had copied the original before hiding it, as insurance against this kind of scenario. I wrapped the device in electrical tape and worked it down into my boot's inner lining, nestling it against my ankle bone where searchers would overlook it.
If I don't walk out, at least the truth survives.
My service weapon followed—a Glock 19 that felt heavier than I remembered. I ejected the magazine and examined each round, brass casings winking under the bedroom's overhead light fixture. Fifteen cartridges plus one chambered. Sixteen opportunities to bring Dorian home or die trying.
The shoulder holster's leather had stiffened from disuse. I adjusted the straps to accommodate years of civilian softness around my torso. The weapon settled against my ribs like an unwelcome reminder of skills I didn't want to use.
A jacket concealed the hardware, dark fabric draping over the angular bulge beneath my left arm. I checked my reflection in the closet mirror—just another Seattle resident heading out for late-night errands.
My gaze drifted toward the living room, where my reading chair sat empty. I could still see Dorian wrapped in Ma's wool blanket while he told me a story about summer camp hornets. His laugh had transformed my ordinary furniture into something sacred, a place where broken people could heal.
