Just four blocks from the Governor’s Mansion on West Paces Ferry, a sober stone mansion stands on a corner lot, surrounded by an eight-foot-high, spiked iron fence. Any casual observer would note the electronic gates across the driveway, the intercom and CCTV camera mounted on a steel post outside the gates, and the expansive lawn, green as the skin of a lime and trimmed golf course short. A closer inspection would reveal cameras mounted under the front porch overhang, high-density xenon security floodlights bracketed under the eaves, and razor-sharp holly bushes planted beneath the ground-floor windows. But unless you knew they were there, you’d never notice the bulletproof glass behind the double-hungs or the gun-port flaps beside each window.
A white stretch limousine pulled to the gate and the driver’s window came down. The driver pressed the intercom call button. A man’s voice said, “Confirmation code,” and the driver punched it in on the keypad. The gates hissed open, and the limousine pulled to the top of the long, circular drive. The driver cut the engine, got out and opened the back door, and led Father Nick inside Southeast Regional Headquarters of the Department of World Outreach.
“Nick, good to see you.” Conrad Winter stood in the marble vestibule with his hand out and a smug grin on his face.
“Didn’t know you were stateside.” Nick gave a curt handshake, thinking:
“Our resources are at your disposal,” Conrad raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, “but it’s your show. I’m simply here to observe and consult and offer assistance in any capacity you may need.”
It was a lie, of course. Conrad was Nick’s counterpart at Outreach, of equal rank, and was not here to play second fiddle. Cardinal Allodi had sent him to be Allodi’s eyes and ears and to take control of the operation if Nick faltered.
And they both knew it.
“Fine. Bring me up to speed, what have we learned?”
“They both got out alive,” said Conrad, walking toward a stairwell at the back of the hallway. “Command center is downstairs.” At the bottom of the stairs, he slid a card key into the lock, a green light flashed on, and the thick steel door buzzed open.
The room was about thirty feet square. Young priests sat at computer stations, tapping keyboards, reading screens. Others sat at desks, talking into headsets, working the phones. A massive electronic map of the southeastern United States dominated one wall. Another wall was covered with flat-panel monitors.
Nick knew of World Outreach’s high-tech command centers, but he’d never been inside one before. He understood the Church’s need for such operations in a troubled world and for men like Conrad to run them—but he wasn’t looking forward to this.
Conrad signaled to the young man on the nearest computer and said, “Bring up the video.”
Black-and-white security video of a parking garage now came up on a monitor, the screen divided into four segments, each showing a different camera feed. Conrad said, “The underground garage at Trinity’s TV studio.” In the top-left segment, Daniel and Trinity burst into the garage from a stairwell door and crossed out of frame, now entering the bottom-right segment, where they approached a limousine and Daniel tugged on the driver’s door handle. From the high angle, there was no way to see if anyone was inside the limo, but the door didn’t open. They ran out of that frame and into the top-right segment, where they got into an SUV, Daniel behind the wheel. Back in the top-left segment, the stairwell door flew open again, and a black man in a suit ran into the garage. The man had a gun in his hand. He adopted a shooter’s stance and unloaded at the back of the SUV as it tore out of the garage.
The young priest paused the video and said, “It doesn’t look like either one took a bullet. And no gunshot victims at area hospitals match their description.”
“Who else has seen this?” said Nick.
“Nobody, sir. We hacked into the security system, downloaded the video, and wiped the drives. The police haven’t even seen it.”
“Good. What do we know about the shooter?”
The young priest tapped on the keyboard, and an enlargement of a Georgia driver’s license came up on another screen. “Samson Turner. Fox guarding the henhouse, as it were. Trinity’s head of security.” Turner’s concealed carry permit came up on the screen, along with his army discharge papers, PI license, college diploma. “Former Special Forces, Silver Star, honorable discharge, now works in executive protection. Employer is one of the best firms in the field; clients include Fortune 100 CEOs, A-list Hollywood actors, blue-chip law firms, you name it. Argos Security, headquartered in Nevada.”
Nevada. Of course—Trinity’s sports predictions… “The gaming industry,” said Nick.
The young priest brought incorporation papers for Argos Security up on another screen. “That’s what it appears. Argos is owned by a private, numbered company in Grand Cayman, but we know the same holding company also owns Paradise Beach, an online casino based in Antigua and Barbuda.”
“OK. What do we know, after they left the garage?”
“Nothing yet, sir. Both their cell phones are offline.”
“Of course they are.”
“We’ve got a surveillance team in place at Trinity’s house—”
“Waste of time,” said Nick. “They’re not going back to his house.”
“We’re also monitoring for any bank card use—debit or credit—but there hasn’t been—”
Nick silenced the young priest with a flick of the wrist. He clapped his hands together twice and addressed the room. “Gentlemen, phones down, fingers at rest.” The room fell silent and all eyes came his way. “You are dangerously underestimating the subjects of this investigation. Daniel Byrne is the best man the ODA has. He’s not going to make it easy for us. We’ve got to do better than this.”
Conrad spoke to the young priest. “Bryan, run that video back a bit. OK, pause it there. That’s a Cadillac.”
“I don’t know anything about Cadillacs,” said Nick. “What?”
“We can hack into GM’s OnStar system,” said the young priest at the computer, “it’ll tell us where they are.”
“Do it. I want the location of that truck within the hour. And redirect your men away from Trinity’s house. I want them looking at Julia Rothman.”
“The reporter?”
“She’s…an old friend of Daniel’s. They’re fond of each other. If our other efforts fail, she’ll lead us to him. So I want everything. I want her phone calls. I want her e-mails. I want her credit card activity. I want to know what she likes on her pizza and what songs she sings in the shower. Full surveillance, round-the-clock.” Nick again addressed the room. “We are not the only interested party, gentlemen. Keep that in mind. We have to find them first.”
“Absolutely, Nick. My men are at your command,” said Conrad Winter. But his thin smile and unblinking eyes added: …
Daniel picked up a pre-paid cell phone at a Kroger and called Julia, and she came through with the money, which he picked up at a Western Union in Gadsden, Alabama. Along with the cash, Julia sent a two-word message:
