Route 70 started in Baltimore on the east coast, ran west through Pennsylvania, Ohio and Indiana before winding Southwest and West again all the way to Denver, and then continuing on until Utah, where it dead-ended in the blissful tranquility of Fishlake National park. It's a four lane highway leading into Denver, and traffic is usually very, very thick in the afternoon.
But on this particular day, two of the lanes were clear. The reason was very simple: a sixteen motorcycle escort was making the way for six camouflaged ATVs and six black Humvees. The local FBI office had scrambled its agents and were in talks with the Pentagon.
In the lead Humvee, riding shotgun was a barrel of a man by the name of Captain Margraves. Captain Margraves was short and angry as a beer keg thrown down a flight of stairs. He had a passion that was bordering on obsession with terrorists. Anything having to do with terrorism meant press, which meant accolades if he succeeded and political demise if he failed. He thought most Americans spent far too much time thinking about Muslim terrorists. The homegrown ones - the Timothy McVeighes and the Unibombers - were far more dangerous and harder to track.
To the all-knowing brain of Captain Margraves, it couldn't be any clearer than if it was written in an email: The strange burst of radiation, the hacking incident. There was a terrorist in Denver.
His orders were clear. Full-force was authorized, but only if the shot was clean and there didn't appear to be any bombs or other weapons. Otherwise, shoot to kill.
He flexed and released his fingers, again and again, as his body began to fill with the limitless rapture of the hunt.
"You, scumbag, are mine," he said out loud. "I can't wait to have my gun tight against your ribs."
The driver, a smart man with a perfect tan, continued to drive without responding.