Bosh had white hair and a kind face.
Lisa nodded her appreciation.
She found a measure of composure and searched her bag for more tissue, suddenly remembering the magazine and comic book she’d bought for Ethan and Taylor; how items had spilled from her bag during the heist.
How they were lost.
Overwhelmed by a terrible wave of sadness, she called out to Morrow before he left the room. He stopped and turned, hopeful she’d recalled an important detail.
“Did you know him? The agent?”
“No.”
“Did you know anything about him?”
“He was married. His wife is pregnant with their first child.”
“Can you tell me his name?”
“Gregory. Gregory Scott Dutton.”
Lisa turned back to the desk, stared at the pictures of her own children and tenderly collected them. Consumed with guilt because she was alive, she broke into tears again.
Watching her, Morrow grappled with his rising fury.
He didn’t know if it was for the cold-blooded executions of these four people, or for his own death sentence. It didn’t matter, he reasoned, heading for the door.
He took up his communion with the dead as if it were a shield and whatever anger he had, he kept caged. Glancing at the ID photos of the three guards and the young agent, Morrow made his way back to the killing zone, accepting that he was at war.
Time to roll the dice.
Gannon was at the tape, too far away to identify the woman in the office who was demonstrating a shooting to investigators.
Morrow, the FBI case agent, had to be among the small group gathered around the desk. Gannon needed to talk to him, but didn’t know how much longer he’d be alone here. In the office, he saw someone looking in his direction. Then the blinds closed.
He had to do something. A long moment passed.
Gannon whistled through his teeth at a detective who was standing in the parking lot near the office, reading notes. The man approached.
“What’s the problem?”
“I believe Special Agent Morrow is inside. It’s important I speak with him, briefly.” Gannon gave him his card.
“Nobody’s giving any interviews.”
“Our stories go to every newsroom in the country and around the world. We can get information out fast. If you want to catch the bad guys, it might help you to talk to us.”
Considering Gannon’s point, the detective reassessed Gannon’s card, looked back at the office, told him to wait then walked to the building. Gannon saw him at the door, talking to two men also wearing the standard FBI uniform of conservative jackets, white shirts and ties. One of them looked at Gannon, then his watch.
Then the two new guys started toward him.
This was his shot.
“What is it?” The first fed asked.
“You’re Agent Morrow?”
“Right, who are you?”
“Jack Gannon, WPA. I understand you’re the case agent?”
“Yeah, what’s so important?”
“Can you confirm for the WPA that one of the four homicide victims is an FBI agent? And that it’s believed he was going for his weapon when he was killed?”
Morrow’s icy expression revealed nothing.
Gannon expected his questions to sting because they betrayed a leak. But that was not his concern. Leaks, tips, informants and anonymous sources were oxygen for reporters, and for cops like Morrow. The agent was about six feet, maybe taller, with a medium build. His chiseled, impassive face gave off the vibe of a man not to be messed with as he eyed Gannon.
But Gannon was no rookie, having experienced ordeals like a horrific interrogation by secret police in Morocco and being taken hostage by drug gangs in the slums of Rio de Janeiro. He was raised in a blue-collar section of Buffalo, New York. His old man was a machine operator in a rope factory and had a handshake that could crush bones.
Gannon could stand his ground with anybody.
“Is any part of my information wrong, Agent Morrow?”
“No comment.”
“Do you have any key witnesses?”
“No comment.”
“But you’re not denying WPA’s information?”
“I don’t have time for games with you.”
The second agent stepped closer to Gannon. “There will be a press briefing at the flags. We advise you to go there now.”
A tense moment passed between them before Morrow and the agent walked off.
So did Gannon, his determination hardening with each step.
Twenty minutes later he was at the flagpoles.
Things had changed here since he’d ventured off alone to prospect for information. More than one hundred members of the Greater New York City news media had claimed a patch of space under the flags.
The camera operator called for batteries, cables and switches from news and satellite trucks. Information concerning birds, dishes, coordinates and feeds was exchanged over harried calls that were patched to directors, booths and networks. TV reporters primped and preened hair and teeth, checked earpieces and handheld mikes.
Gannon saw Carrie Carter, with WRCX Radio 5 News, talking with a reporter from the
“Jack. Sorry, I didn’t catch up to you. The desk wanted me to stay here. You find anything?”
“Only possibilities. What about you?”
“They moved my stuff. Great pickup. The desk says we beat AP and Reuters with some of the big ones already. FOX, CNN,
A sheet of paper appeared in front of Gannon, held by a cop distributing a short summary of facts on the
