“Elevator on your right,” said the receptionist, handing them each photo-
capture passes to wear that read “Floor 6.” But when they got on the elevator and
pushed six, the doors closed, the lights in the car dimmed, and it descended.
After a brief moment of startled disorientation, Rook said, “Black elevator,” and
began punching the keypad, which did absolutely nothing to stop their downward
movement. He gave up and said, “Sweet.”
The doors parted in a high-tech subbasement command center. Dozens of plainclothes
personnel and military from all branches worked computers and stared at giant LED
wall screens. The Jumbo-Trons displayed scores of live security cams and lighted
grids, one of which resembled a connect-the-dots of the US Northeast. A waiting pair
of agents attired in complementary Joseph A. Banks escorted them along a back wall
to a situation room where DHS special agent in charge Bart Callan came around from
the head of the empty conference table to meet them at the door.
Last time Heat saw him, it had played like a sixties spy movie. Nikki ate her lunch
in solitude on a park bench; Agent Callan materialized out of nowhere and sat beside
her to deliver a sales pitch to join his team to help track down Tyler Wynn. She
heard him out but declined. Nikki couldn’t be certain, but it felt to her like
Callan then tried to open the personal flank, sending signals of friendship… and
perhaps deeper interest. But Heat had a relationship, and more than that, she needed
independence from the feds. Her investigative style didn’t lend itself to
bureaucracy, politics, and red tape. Now, judging from the smile beaming her way as
he approached, Special Agent Callan clearly hadn’t given up on Nikki.
“Heat, my God, I never thought I’d see you down here.” He thrust out a hand, and
when Nikki shook, he clasped his other one over hers and held it exactly one second
past friendly. Bart Callan’s face brightened around a corn-fed smile that made her
blush. Then he turned and said, “Hey, Rook, welcome to the bunker.”
“Thanks. And so nice to visit you under my own power.” Rook still smarted from
what he called the Great Homeland Carjacking. A few weeks before, when Heat and Rook
returned from Paris, an agent posing as a car service driver had locked the doors
and steered their limo into an empty warehouse off the Long Island Expressway, where
Agent Callan interrogated them both about their activities overseas.
Now Callan clamped an arm around Rook’s shoulders as he led them into the Situation
Room. “Come on, you’re not going to hold a grudge about our little impromptu chat,
are you?”
Suddenly blown away by the high-tech room, with its flight deck–sized mahogany
table and imposing array of LED screens, Rook said, “Not if you let me meet Dr.
Strangelove.”
The earnest agent gave him a puzzled look and turned quickly back to Nikki. “Sit,
sit.” He gestured to the leather high-backed chairs, but she stayed on her feet.
Callan sniffed trouble. “OK, not sit-sitting…”
“You told my witness—a person of interest in my mother’s case—that he can’t
speak to me. I demand to know why you are interfering in my investigation.”
Callan tugged the knot in his necktie loose. He already had his coat off, and Heat
watched his triceps flex against his shirtsleeves. “Nikki, this should be our
investigation. All you have to do is come aboard.”
“I told you, I want independence, not some federal machine messing with my case.”
“Too late,” said a woman’s voice.
Heat and Rook turned to the door. The woman breezing in carried herself like she was
in charge, and knew it. And from Callan’s sudden loss of affability, he did, too.
Suddenly taut, he said, “Nikki Heat, say hello to—”
But the slender brunette in the tailored black suit jumped in, making her own
introduction. “—Agent Yardley Bell, Homeland Security.” She gave Heat an
appraising look and a strong handshake. Then she turned to Rook, whose face wore an
expression Heat had never seen.