"Something about this note caught my attention," Toones explained as he turned a paper around for Trent, Walker, and Trivette to see. "I still don't know what, but when I took a closer look at it, the 'm' matched precisely." He showed his diagrams of the crime scene photo and the sample paper.

Trent recognized it immediately; it was the application Ira Temp filled out for the Thompsons. The note Toones was referring to was a brief sentence written at the top of the page, not in Ira's handwriting: This one's my favorite, let's hire him.

Loopy, elaborate writing. And the 'm's were a perfect match to the spray painting.

"Mrs. Thompson wrote this note," Trent said numbly.

"These notes," Toones corrected, pointing to the crime scene photos. "She wrote this, too. She was there."

"Mrs. Thompson is part of the Reformists?" Trivette asked. "Does that make any sense?"

"It puts Margo in danger," Walker answered. He pulled out his phone to dial Agent Martin with the news.

"How did she know about Margo and me, though?" Trent asked aloud.

"Once they found out about her identity, it wouldn't be hard," Trivette said with a shrug.

Trent didn't hear him. Another memory flashed intensely, and he sat down on the floor abruptly. He remembered the train tracks, parking his car and using binoculars to observe the compound. He was excited, he remembered, because he had finally caught a glimpse of Margo after all these days of sleuthing. She was talking with another woman, but they were too far away for him to identify the stranger. But he would know Margo anywhere. The Reformists were apparently equal opportunity when it came to gender, race, and creed. He was trying to get a better look at Margo and her companion when a fist seized his collar. The binoculars were brushed aside and a bald-headed man pulled him out of the car. He was enormous, and all muscle, and with the surprise attack on his side, Trent didn't stand much of a chance.

"Ira. Ira found me staking out Margo. I had her picture in my pocket. That's how they found out," he whispered to the concerned Rangers. "I put her in danger."

Walker offered his hand. "We have to go, now. She doesn't have much time."

Trent watched the barely-controlled chaos that ensued at Ranger Headquarters following receipt of his information. He had been put on the back burner, of course, but Walker could sense how much he needed to be in the loop and let Trent observe, at least. Trent held his tongue while the disagreeable FBI liaison, Agent Martin, diagrammed a plan of attack. It was usual protocol: Assume Margo had been found out, and try to negotiate her safe return. Failing that, a SWAT-style raid was in order. Trent didn't like the part where Margo was expendable, and he told Walker as much.

"I promise we'll do everything we can to get her back, Trent. But things don't look good. They might have already killed her."

"She's alive, Walker," Trent argued. Walker recognized his tone as one that had come out of his own mouth many atime.

"I wish I shared your optimism," Agent Martin interjected. "You've been a real help on this case. If we find her alive, it's on you. I won't forget that." He offered his hand to Trent, who looked at it dumbly. Part of him respected Agent Martin's apology, but the part of him that was detached and cold, worried for Margo, made him turn and walk away without accepting.

Trent started up his Stingray and burned rubber. Long ago, Walker had taught him to obey his instincts. And right now, Trent's instincts screamed that Margo was in very real and immediate danger, and would not survive the day if left to the FBI. If anyone would have asked him, Trent would have claimed he didn't have a destination in mind as he drove. But as he turned onto streets and switched lanes, he realized he was driving straight for the old elementary school by the railroad tracks. He didn't have a plan or a gun, but he was going to rescue Margo Jones anyway.

Carlos and Danae sat on her couch. He had been relieved of his guns and knife by Nic, who leaned against the kitchen counter, his own gun lazily pointed in their direction. He was hopped up on something—Carlos could tell by his eyes—but that only made him more dangerous and unpredictable. As Nic flipped through his friend's day planner, each page seemed to set him more on edge. Carlos needed to diffuse the situation, now.

"You can take that and go, you know."

Nic looked up. "Oh, I don't think so. I'm not quite done with you yet."

"What more do you want from us?"

"Roger had a journal, too, didn't he?"

Carlos and Danae hadn't looked at it before Nic got the jump on them, and Danae had slyly slipped it through the slats of the locker into an adjacent unit as soon as she heard Nic's voice. Even if Nic escaped, they still had a chance to put him away if there was evidence in Roger's journal.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Carlos said. "That's all she had in the box."

"You can't believe a word she says," Nic leered.

Danae snorted. "Yeah, stoners are known for their accurate judgment of character and honesty…"

Nic leaned forward to strike her but Carlos put himself in the way. Nic's hand shook as he pointed the gun at Carlos' forehead.

"Who killed Roger?" Danae rasped out. Her question ended the stalemate.

"My boss," Nic said. "Because Roger was going to squeal. He was going to put the ENTIRE organization at risk for you." He trained the barrel on Danae, and this time his hand didn't shake.

"You could testify, bring down Roger's murderer," she said quietly.

"Not without implementing myself."

"You could finish what he started."

"These are not the kind of people you walk away from," Nic said desperately.

"Roger tried, at least. You're just a coward." Danae stood up, and Nic extended his gun. Carlos grabbed at Danae, trying to pull her back down. Apparently she wasn't sharing Carlos' idea to diffuse the situation. If anything, she seemed to be trying to antagonize him.

"I'm not the one who ran away. You destroyed him long before anyone put a bullet in his head." He shifted the gun up from her chest and stepped forward, pressing the barrel to her forehead.

Danae saw an opportunity and took it, ducking and turning away from the gun as she pulled Nic toward her, tripping him over the coffee table. Carlos was on the move even before the gun discharged, pulling Danae away from Nic. He turned to see Nic was bleeding from a gash in his forehead, where he had bludgeoned it on the unforgiving wooden arms of Danae's sofa. He had other minor cuts from where he had broken the glass of the coffee table. Two quick punches from Carlos, and Nic was unconscious.

"Are you ok?" Carlos asked as he grabbed Nic's gun.

Danae held her side as though she had a runner's cramp and breathed heavily. "Yeah. I think so." She was shaking from the adrenaline.

Carlos moved to the counter, where Nic had put his cell phone. He called 9-1-1 and had only just begun talking to the dispatcher when he heard another gun cocking. "Put down the phone, Carlito." Carlos turned slowly to see Raoul Ramirez in the doorway. Carlos put down the phone and his gun, though he did not shut off the phone.

"This day keeps getting better and better!" Carlos said.

Danae passed out.

Trent left his car a good distance away from the abandoned elementary school that served as the Reformists' headquarters. They knew the car. In all likelihood they were expecting him to return. Trent tried Carlos' cell phone again. He could sure use his friend's help right about now, but he could only get the voicemail. Trent hesitated. Carlos was obviously swamped with something and may need help himself. But Carlos could likely take care of himself, and Margo was in trouble now…

He called Kim. "Track down Carlos," he said.

"Any particular reason why?" she asked as she began typing on her keyboard.

"His phone is off or he's not answering it. I think something's wrong."

"I'll track his car and cross-reference its position to police reports…" She heard the dial tone; Trent had hung up. Carlos wasn't the only one in trouble, she thought. This woman, Margo, had Trent wound up pretty tight.

Trent skulked around the back of the building by the loading bay. There were fewer windows here, and his choice of entrances. He slipped inside after taking out one guard. Were they expecting a shipment? Or were they expecting the FBI to attack here for the same reasons Trent just had? To his left he heard the roar and stomps of a rallied crowd. He headed toward it, and came to the auditorium. Trent sprinted around the corner, heading for the back of the stage. Again, there was only a single guard posted. Lucky for him they seemed to be in the middle of a pep rally and had left minimal security.

The backstage area was perfect for Trent's purposes, providing ample opportunities to hide, and he could see the gathered crowd from the safety of the darkness behind the dusty, moth-eaten curtains.

Ira was at a podium, shouting antagonistic words at his audience. It was all anti-government, anti-law enforcement. They knew the FBI was coming, and they were getting ready to fight back. Ultimately, they were psyching themselves up to become martyrs for their cause.

Trent recognized several faces as upper-class friends of Beatrice, but there was one person Trent didn't see in the crowd: Margo. Was he too late? Did they have her somewhere else? Trent heard the click of high heels behind him on the stage, and he quickly scrambled up a nearby ladder to the catwalk. The view was better here, and he had the element of surprise if he wanted to attack. With luck, whoever had come behind him simply thought the guard he had taken out was patrolling around the corner. Trent was glad he had taken the time to stash the body among the moldy and broken stage props.

Trent's heart caught in his throat as he watched the stage below him. The heels belonged to Beatrice Thompson, who was dressed as if she just came from a press conference with her husband. Even here in the headquarters of a terrorist organization, dragging Margo behind her, she was all business.

"Meet Margo Jones," she said, taking the spotlight form Ira. He stepped back from the podium and took control of Bee's hostage. "You all know her as Julie the Key. There's not a safe she can't open, right?" Margo looked bad: tired, thin, worked over. She had been found out days ago and tortured. "The FBI knows her as Agent Jones, a junior field agent on her first big case. How's that working out for you, Margo?"

The crowd laughed at this, and Trent began to look around. The time to act was coming, and he was going to have to take on Ira Temp again to free Margo.

Beatrice continued her speech, and Trent began to realize that Ira actually deferred to her authority. She was a major player in this organization. Trent found a rope beside him. Bee's tirade had turned political; the soldiers in that auditorium weren't taking a stand for themselves, but for the country. For each one of them that died, hundreds more would have their eyes opened to the great hypocrisy and join their ranks.

"Margo."

Ira let go of Margo, who stood facing Bee, trembling.

"You've had a few days to think on it. Will you join us? Or will you die?"

Trent grabbed the rope and jumped.