Prologue
The air was cool at night in Washington D.C. The breeze through the apartment window made George Walters feel comfortable after what had been a long, hot summer day. Comfortable as he may have been, however, George was not calm or collected. Instead, George was feeling incredibly paranoid.
As George ran though his apartment, packing his things, he thought about where he might escape to. Maybe he'd hide out in the Alaskan wilderness. At this point, anything was a possibility. He just needed to get out of D.C. He stuffed clothing in his wheeled suitcase, and packed other bags with toiletries and electronic items, including his laptop and cell phone. He ran frantically from one side of the room to the next, thoughts jumbled as he struggled to pack anything with some sort of organization. The only clear thought in his mind was that he needed to leave. He'd been here too long already, and time was of the essence.
As he packed the last of his luggage, George looked out his apartment window to make sure nobody was waiting for him. Not seeing anything of suspicion, he grabbed his bags and headed out the bedroom and toward the front door. The information he'd obtained, George was certain, was going to have him killed, unless he could get asylum.
As he opened the door, he noticed a faint ticking noise coming from his small couch. George silently set his luggage down and carefully removed the cushion to see just what he'd expected: a bomb. They knew. They were after him, and he only had three seconds left. Three seconds until the flames engulfed his body, charring it beyond recognition, probably. He began to run, making it to the front door again before the bomb went off. In his final second, however, George had accepted his defeat. He could only hope that someone would figure out what really happened to him, and that they didn't become targets too.