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The Department of Analysis and Response in ruins. Torn open as if a giant had scooped it wide, exposing the interior floors, row on row of naked desks and debris-choked halls and shattered toilets. The new building had collapsed entirely, reduced to a mountain of rubble half-obscured by billowing black smoke.

The new building. He remembered the video of Bobby’s office, the white walls with pictures leaning against them, no time yet to hang them.

And no time to come.

Cooper’s knees hit the ground and a sound came from his lungs.

Someone hugged him. Slender arms twining around his neck, and the smell of hairspray. “I’m so sorry,” Millie said into his shoulder.

He leaned into the embrace, squeezed back with both arms. It wasn’t Millie he was holding, it was Natalie, and Shannon, and his children, and his father, and Bobby and Luisa and Val. For a long moment he held them all, his face buried in Millie’s hair.

Then, slowly, he released her. She stepped back, her eyes on his. All around him, the apocalyptic images continued.

Val’s voice rang in his head. This is John Smith we’re talking about. Whatever he’s planning, it won’t be what we expect.

Words spoken when she was alive.

Words spoken moments ago.

Slowly, he rose to his feet.

“I’m, umm, I’m sorry.” Erik’s features were carved in deep pockets by flickering video. His hands were in his pockets. “About your friends.”

“Are they . . .” His voice cracked, and he paused. Coughed. “Are they dead?”

“Statistically—”

“Fuck your statistics!” The words came unbidden. He made himself breathe. After a moment, he said, “Sorry.”

“It’s . . . I’m sorry.” Erik paused. “Yes.”

“You’re sure.”

“The call originated from the west corner of the . . . yes. They’re gone. Estimated fatalities in the DAR between twelve hundred and two thousand.”

Cooper nodded. “Okay.”

“No,” Millie started, “it’s not—”

“How many attacks were there?”

“Fifteen so far. They were synchronized.”

“John Smith.”

Epstein nodded. “Your friend Valerie’s analysis was correct.”

“You were listening in?”

“Of course,” Erik said as though that were normal. “However, she was suffering from institutional bias. John Smith wasn’t acting against the DAR. And though we are in his endgame, this is not the master stroke.”

“No,” Cooper said. “He thinks bigger than this.”

“Agreed. Statistically—” He caught himself nervously. “Umm, I mean, logically, the purpose is to weaken existing power structures. For greatest efficacy, terrorists benefit from a desperate nation.”

“Yeah.” Cooper looked at the screens. “Well.”

“However,” Epstein said, “we’re no closer to John Smith than before. Perhaps we should use alternate methods.”

“You mean start torturing Soren? No.”

“Extreme interrogation doesn’t fit your personality matrix. Understood. But there are people suited for it.”

“You think I’m squeamish?” Cooper made a sound that wasn’t a laugh. “After all that’s happened?” He shook his head. “I hate everything about the notion of torture, and I’d take Soren apart a piece at a time if I thought it would work. But it won’t.”

“Expand.”

“I offered Soren the one thing he’s always dreamed of and never imagined he might actually have. I’m sure you were watching. I even lied and suggested that it might be made permanent. And he pulled the plug out of his own skull.”

“Still, perhaps pain would—”

Cooper shook his head. “He’s too strong. I’m sure you could break him. But it would be his mind you broke, not his will. There are only two people in the world he cares about. Only two he even believes exist. You could drive him mad, but there’s no amount of pain that would make him betray . . .”

He trailed off.

Millie stared at him. “Wow. Are you serious?”

Cooper turned away from her accusing eyes. Looked at Erik Epstein, pale and powerful and surrounded by images of a world in crisis. “I need you to get someone for me.”

“Who?”

“The other person Soren cares about,” Cooper said. “His lover, Samantha.”

CHAPTER 21

Hawk was reading volume six of a graphic novel series when someone knocked on his door.

He didn’t really know if there was a difference between comic books and graphic novels, but the latter sounded better. A comic book might be some silly story of a rich duck and his nephews. What he was reading was a philosophical exploration of the devil’s continuing war with heaven. This devil wasn’t red and scaly, and he wasn’t exactly evil, although he certainly wasn’t good, either. More like doing his own thing, no matter what. He wanted free will, and heaven was all about predestination. Hawk knew on which side his mom would have fallen, and he was kind of falling the same way.

The knock was three soft raps, could be anyone, and so as he walked to the door, he let himself imagine it was Tabitha. Maybe asking for help with something. He was a better shot, maybe she wanted to practice—

John Smith stood in the hallway. “Hiya, Hawk.”