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“Tell me anyway, Max. I have my sources, my ways to find people. This guy’s a material witness in a homicide.”

“I’ll tell you his name, Ramon, because I want to build trust. And in the days ahead we’ll need that. If we’re going to get this fixed before the tanks roll in, we have to promise to tell each other the truth from now on.”

The detective studied her, his face serious. “You have my word.”

“Mine too. But here’s the thing. If you do a big high-profile manhunt, then Ames White will get to your witness first, and then neither of us will ever get to talk to him.”

“I can protect him.”

“The police can’t protect him from White.”

Clemente’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say the police. I said, ‘I can protect him.’ ”

She considered that; then she took the leap of faith, of trust. “His name’s Sage Thompson.”

She gave him the agent’s last known address as well.

Clemente scribbled the information in his notebook. “If you’ve been inside Terminal City, how do you know he’s not home?”

A half smile played at the corner of her mouth. “Well, I have my sources, too — including a nontransgenic friend, who visited the house and said it’s vacant and for sale.”

“I’ll find Thompson,” Clemente said. “Now, we better get you back inside. Here’s my cell number.” He handed her a slip of paper. “You find out anything, you let me know.”

“You’ll do the same?”

“I’ll do the same.”

They walked slowly back to the gate in silence. The night had turned chilly again and Max saw no stars. By tomorrow it would be raining again. Sometimes she wondered why she’d left L.A. in the first place, earthquakes or not. She was tired of being cold and wet. When this was over, she promised herself, she and Logan were going somewhere warm for a while.

In spite of herself, she smiled.

“What?” Clemente asked as she stepped through the gate.

Turning back, she asked, “You ever been to Florida, Ramon?”

He nodded. “In my Army days.”

“Warm there?”

Now he smiled too. “Most of the time.”

“Be nice to see the sun again,” Max said, then she trotted away.

Otto Gottlieb sat in his car and stared out at Puget Sound in the darkness.

Discovery Park was vacant at this hour, the West Point Lighthouse poking holes in the blackness as it swept back and forth. Agent White and the detective, Clemente, were in the middle of some kind of pissing contest, which White of course was determined to win. Toward that end, White had talked Otto into being evasive with the police about how, when, and where the NSA had come back into possession of the imager.

The deceit had gone so deep that a fed-up Otto had finally come to believe that White had gone rogue. There didn’t seem to be any other viable explanation, and Agent White’s perfidy had now broadened in scope to include Otto Gottlieb as well.

Otto pounded the steering wheel. He’d gotten so caught up in trying to save his ass, he’d forgotten to cover it... and now he was about to be hung out to dry. Sooner or later the truth, whatever that was, about White’s clandestine activities would come out... and who was going to be there to take the blame?

Otto.

Shit.

There had to be someone he could talk to, someone he could go to... but who? White was well insulated. Otto knew that his partner had friends in Congress, if not higher. His own predicament was simple — could he trust anyone in the NSA?

The answer, of course, was no; not his peers, not his superiors... no one.

Otto considered other agencies at the federal level, but who? The FBI? Probably not. CIA? Ditto. Though he knew people in both, he had no idea who might be tied to White. The state authorities were out of the question, as well — White had the governor in his pocket, and God knew who else.

Only Detective Clemente had stood up to White, and Otto wondered if a local cop could accomplish anything more with White than providing a source of minor irritation. Still, it seemed like the most viable of the not wonderful options available.

The problem was, what would he say to Clemente? What proof did he have that White had gone rogue?

Taking a deep breath, Otto sat back, listened to the mournful cry of the foghorn, and tried to build his case. White had used that transgenic, X5-494, to chase down other transgenics. That had seemed like a bad idea to Otto to begin with, but White overruled him, and in the end they lost 494 as well.

When that operation went south, Otto had been forced to help in its cover-up, and he had no remaining proof that White had used 494. The few other agents who’d been there, who might corroborate his story, all seemed firmly in White’s pocket.

Of course, they probably thought the same thing about him...

White had bred both trust and distrust among his own team all along. Though the agents all appeared to be loyal, to Otto’s eye that loyalty seemed more aimed at White than at the NSA, and he didn’t feel comfortable trying to win over any of the others to his side. Odds were, even if he mentioned his suspicions to one of them, that agent would turn around and tell White.

The fiasco at Jam Pony and the deliberate obstruction of Detective Clemente’s homicide investigation had only intensified Otto’s suspicions. And the conversation with White this evening had been the final straw.

Otto had been driving White home at the end of the day, his boss pissed off because once again Washington had ordered White’s NSA unit not to get involved with the siege at Terminal City. When White received that word, he’d gone ballistic; but by the time he got in the car with Otto, White had simmered down to mere anger. Driving as fast as he could without looking obvious, Otto sped toward White’s house, anxious to get the man out of his car.

“They don’t trust me, Otto,” White said, turning his gaze out the passenger window at the houses they passed.

“I’m sure they do, sir. They just have a plan for Terminal City that doesn’t include us.”

“The transgenics are our job,” White said, his voice rising. “We should be allowed to do our job.”

Otto didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing; he was well-practiced at providing eloquent silences.

“They’re going to screw it up, and she’s going to get away.”

“‘She,’ sir?”

“452 — the one they call Max. She’s the key, Otto. They all band around her. Kill the head and the body will fall.”

“Maybe that’s the plan.”

“What?” White seemed surprised Otto had contributed a thought.

“The plan — to capture her, and bring the alliance of transgenics down. If she is the leader.”

“She’s more than the leader, Otto. And if she’s captured...”

“Sir?”

White turned from the houses to look at Otto. Glancing over, Otto caught his boss’s gaze and recognized the fiery glow that always preceded one of White’s odd choices.

“You should go on vacation, Otto. Take the next week off, starting tomorrow.”

“I’ve used my vacation for the year, sir.”

“I’ll clear it with Washington.”

“But, sir—”

White’s gaze turned hot. “Do what I tell you, Otto. You’re not cleared for what’s going to go down here.”

“Like at Jam Pony, sir?” Though no overt sarcasm tinged the words, Otto instantly regretted saying them.

Rubbing a hand over his face, White was clearly attempting to hold in his temper. When he spoke, his voice sounded icy and robotic. “Yes, like Jam Pony. Drop me off, go home, don’t come to the office for a week. Do you understand?”

Otto looked over at his boss and saw the face of a madman. Worried that White’s next step might be a bullet to the back of his head, Otto said, “Week’s vacation sounds good, sir.”