Three black SUVs pulled up outside the bank, and before the FBI agents had emptied out of them four more showed up. The agents dispersed around the outside of the building, but, as Christine had wished, only the senior agent came in.

Fusco was glad to see Special Agent Moss. He was only vaguely familiar with him, but at least they knew each other in passing. It could make some of the explaining a little easier. Except he still had no idea what he was explaining anyhow.

Moss hurried over to the desk. "What is this?" he demanded.

"Missiles inbound to Manhattan," Christine snapped without looking at him. Her fingers were flying over the keyboard. The screens in front of her was covered with letters and numbers – gibberish, as far as Fusco could see, but she seemed to know what she was doing.

On the left screen was a map of the Eastern seaboard, with the missiles' tracks, four of them, marked in bright red.

The senior FBI agent went pale. "Are those nukes?"

"No."

"Where did they come from?"

"Norfolk."

"Can we evacuate?"

"No time."

He took a deep breath. "What do you need me to do?"

The hacker still didn't look away from the screen. "Find me an empty trash can and put a double liner in it. A bottle of water. And something mint."

"Okay …"

Moss moved to search the bank.

"What do you need me to do?" Fusco asked.

"Put your hand on my left shoulder."

He did. "Okay. Now what?"

"Now keep it there." She glanced back briefly. "There's this terrified teenager running around in my brain. I need you to hold her hand so she'll stop screaming and let me work."

He tightened his grip. Then he shifted around behind her and put his hands on both of her shoulders.

There wasn't anything else to do.

In Donnelly's ear, Christine said, "Flight leader, can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, ma'am. Over."

"What's your name, sweetie?"

"Lieutenant …"

"Nope," she cut him off. "What's your momma call you?"

The fighter pilot paused. This was so far off his normal operating procedure, Donnelly knew, that the man needed an extra beat to process. But he had his orders, and they undoubtedly said to do whatever the Bad Wolves said. "Uh … Tommy, ma'am."

"Oh, nice." Donnelly could hear the smile in her voice. Her father's name. Christine was absolutely calm, almost playful. The pilot didn't know her well enough to know that her clipped words meant that it was fake. It was her talk-the-jumper-off-the-ledge speech pattern. Calm and short. The pilot probably didn't need it. He was a trained professional, after all. She was talking to herself as much as to him. "You can call me Daisy."

"Yes, ma'am. Daisy."

"Tommy, listen up. In about one minute, hopefully, we'll be seizing control of the missiles. When we have them, we're going to turn them over to you. I need to know as soon as you have visual on them, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Suddenly there was a new voice on the Wolf feed, male and firm. "Bad Wolves, this is the Office of Special Counsel. Given your inability to regain control of the missiles, we ask that the Ellsberg Cascade be disabled."

There was a moment of silence from the Wolves. Then Seven said, "Fuck off."

"Not happening," Six agreed.

Donnelly looked around. The others in the Den were equally startled.

Nine said something quiet. He looked up at the screen. Her words were transcribed as: CLOTHES LINE TO RESEARCH, PLEASE.

Clothes line? Then, quite unexpectedly, Donnelly's phone rang.

He didn't know what to do. He was afraid it was Asena. She was normally very discrete, but this was an emergency … which was foolish, because if it was enough of an emergency that she needed to compromise herself to reach him …

He pulled the phone out.

"Speaker," Pool said.

Donnelly answered it on speaker. "Yes?"

"This is Nine," Christine said. "Need a favor."

Not clothes line. Closed line. He wished he could laugh.

He couldn't even speak. The words stuck in his throat.

Because she might die in the next – he checked – four minutes and fifty seconds, and this was his last chance to tell her. That he wasn't dead. That he wished he'd never left her. But that he'd found the most amazing job, the most worthwhile purpose …

Four minutes plus to blow up her life, and his, before she died …

He kept his mouth shut.

"When the dust settles," Christine said, "or the smoke clears, whichever, take a long hard look at Special Counsel, see if they might be behind this shit show."

Donnelly swallowed hard. "Got it," he managed to say.

"Follow the money."

Poole leaned over his shoulder. "Teach your grandma to suck eggs, Nine. Go catch our missiles."

"We'll get 'em. Secure them better next time."

The call went dead.

Donnelly took a deep breath and clicked his phone off.

Fusco tried to watch everything on the screens. Understanding it, though? That wasn't happening. He was only half-convinced that Christine understood it. Her fingers never hesitated. He couldn't believe anyone could type that fast. The one screen that was completely gibberish scrolled like the movie credits of a show that ran late. It took the detective some time to figure out that it wasn't just her inputting data. All of them – all the other voices – were typing on the same screen. It was all flowing together.

On the other screen, the missiles kept on flying toward Manhattan.

Moss came back. Fusco was only half-aware of him. The agent had already brought the trash can and the bottle of water, which he put on the edge of the desk. The second time he came back with four of those starlight mints. This time he dropped half a pack of DoubleMint gum, a quarter of a roll of Mentos, and a candy cane so old it had yellowed.

"I think that'll do," Fusco said quietly.

The agent paused beside him and looked at the screen. "Do you …" Then he stopped. He didn't want to jostle her elbow, figuratively or actually. He just stood and watched.

One of the voices said, "I'm in!"

Immediately there was a chorus of warnings. "Incoming! All sides!"

"Spikes ahoy!"

"Back blast in three seconds …"

Christine just kept typing.

"I got 'em!" the first voice said.

The hacker tapped a key. "Tommy, you still with me?"

"I'm here, Ma'am. We have visual contact on the bogeys."

"Gross." Her fingers paused. "All right, Tommy. Let's hope you're a good son. There's a very good chance that the fucks who launched the missiles is going to try to take them back on the hand-off. Three, we covered?"

"I am covering you like a horny bull, D."

"Good. Tommy, just answer yes or no. Do you remember the month and date of your mother's birthday?"

"I … yes, ma'am."

"All right. Let's make this quick, before they crack us and look it up. On five, we'll turn over control of the missiles to you on four numbers and a letter. Month and day of your mother's birth and the first letter of your confirmation name. Got it?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Five, ready?"

"Let's brush these bitches off."

"Tommy?" She typed in a quick little entry. "Five. Four. Three. Two." She hit the enter button. "You should have control."

There was a long moment of silence everywhere.

The pilot said, "I have guidance control."

There were cheers and whistles and quieter words of relief.

"Then take them out to sea," Christine said simply, "and drown them."

Her hands still hovered over the keyboard. Her hands shook. Fusco was pretty sure if he let go of her shoulders, he'd find out his were shaking worse.

One of the louder voices over the speakers said, "That's several million dollars' worth of military hardware …"

"It's several million dollars of blowy-uppy stuff that's already had its guidance system compromised once today," the other female hacker snapped back. "You want to take a chance? We'll try to land it in your back yard."

There was a pause. "Lieutenant, splash the ordnance."

"Will do, sir."

Fusco heard commotion outside the back, crowd noise. He turned to look out the window. People were looking up, pointing. He heard the jets then. Or maybe it was the missiles he heard. He wasn't sure he'd know the difference. Nobody outside was panicking. They were just looking. Pointing. Like it was some fucking air show.

The noise passed overhead and slowly faded. The evacuated people on the street went back to shivering and complaining.

The red lines on the screen veered to the east.

There was more silence. Fusco could hear the air handlers in the bank. The computer hum. His own blood pounding in his ears.

Then Tommy announced, matter-of-factly, "Splash one. Splash two."

He splashed the others, too, but it was too noisy over the speakers to hear him.

Christine pushed back from the desk and grabbed the trash can. Fusco was ready; he caught her long hair up in one hand and held it behind her head while she vomited.

Finch uncoiled his fingers very deliberately. He hadn't been aware of grabbing the edge of his desk, but his knuckles were white from gripping it so tightly. His hands hurt. He pulled them back and rubbed them gently to bring the circulation back.

His head was light, swimming. He took some deep, deliberate breaths.

It had worked. The protocol had worked precisely as he had designed it to. It had seen the sudden threat and responded to it perfectly. Just as he'd planned. Just as he'd …

"Finch?" Reese said in his ear.

"Mr. Reese. Apparently the crisis has been resolved."

"Apparently." He thought that his partner sounded a bit winded, too. "What happens now?"

"Now …" Finch sat back. "Now the system resets to normal parameters. The hackers go on their various ways. The government tries to find out who cracked their launch codes."

"That's it?"

"Yes. That's it."

Reese gave an exasperated sigh. "You do good work, Finch. But sometimes you lack a flair for the dramatic."

"I think this particular city has had enough drama for a lifetime, Mr. Reese."

It was quiet in the Den. There had been short bursts of noise when the hackers seized control of the missiles, and again when the pilot announced that they were underwater, but mostly there was just quiet relief.

Donnelly was surprised by how loud the computers were.

The big screens at the center of the room flashed and scrolled as the system compiled and filed the data collected. It saved everything, as far as he could tell – voice, electronic, text, video. Then the screen went blue. When it went black again, it read: Normal operating parameters restored.

Thank you, Asena, Donnelly thought. He would have to remember to tell her later, when they were alone: She'd done good. It wouldn't matter to her, that he said those words. But it would matter to him.

"Alright," Poole finally said. "Everybody get some coffee and change your delicates if you need to. Then let's find out who just tried to hit us."

Donnelly picked up his phone thoughtfully. He'd grown accustomed to his Imaginary Christine. He'd almost forgotten that the real woman existed somewhere out in the real world. It had been a shock to hear Real Christine's voice in his ear. Shocking, but also wonderful. Like jumping into a cold lake on a really hot day. Emotionally he'd come up gasping for air, but he felt so much better. Refreshed.

He'd gotten to hear her. Gotten to speak to her, though she had certainly not known who he was. Just another government drone on the other end of the phone. But it didn't matter. He felt cool and invigorated and alive.

And the sons of bitches who had tried to blow up his city? They'd had their asses handed to them by the Bad Wolves. And now Donnelly's new pack was coming for them.

He grinned, put his phone away, and went to get coffee.

Fusco gestured with his head toward the water. Moss picked it up and twisted the top off. When Christine sat up, he handed it to her. She took a swig, rinsed her mouth, and spit it in the trash can. Then she took a drink and swallowed.

"Okay," she finally said.

"Okay what?" Moss asked.

"Okay, I'm ready for a mint." She glanced over the selection, picked up the candy cane. "What the hell is this?" She put it down, ripped opened the Mentos pack and put both of the remaining candies in her mouth. Then she stood up and scooped the hard candies. "Thanks, Brian."

The FBI agent was still as white as his dress shirt. Fusco made a mental note to chuckle about that later, when he was sure he wasn't still fish-belly white himself. "Thanks, Brian," Moss repeated. "That's it?"

Christine stood up. Then she grabbed Fusco's arm. She wasn't exactly steady on her feet, either. "That's it." She gestured to the computer screens behind her. "Nine, out," she announced. "Later, bitches."

"Bye, Daisy!"

"Clean getaways, sweetie!"

The screens flickered and then went dark as the computer system rebooted.

"That's it? All that … missiles and … that's it?" Moss ran his hand over his face. "What the hell just happened here?"

"Bad Wolf. Rally cry."

"Rally cry?" he repeated.

"We wanted to call it 'Super Secret International Hack Squad Assembly', but it took too long to say."

He scowled at her. "I don't even begin to know what kind of report to do on this."

"There is no report," Christine said cheerfully. "There was a bomb threat, but no bomb. Nothing to see here. Everyone can come back inside, warm up, get back to work. Back to their lives."

"But …"

"The incident report will be on your computer by the time you get to it."

"Are you … how the hell did you do this?"

"I didn't do anything. Except help back-crack some hackers. Some really good hackers, by the way."

"But then what …"

She gestured around the empty bank. "You think I have the juice to do this? Clear a building, summon you guys, access the Pentagon, lip off to the Department of Defense?" Christine hesitated. "Well, those last two I kinda do, but that's not the point. This is was over my head, Brian. And way over yours."

"But …"

The woman was talking a good game, but Fusco could feel her hand crushing his forearm. "Okay," he said, "let's get you some fresh air."

"You can't just leave," Moss protested.

One of his agents opened the bank door and stuck his head inside. "Agent Moss? We've, um, we're received the all-clear?"

The FBI agent looked at Christine again. "How far over my head?"

"Washington. Somewhere. Super-secret. NSA or something else. Some national defense group."

"You don't even know who you're working for?"

"Nope."

"Sir?" the agent prompted.

Moss' phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, then back at the woman. Then he turned toward the door. "Let 'em back in," he said. And then, quietly, "What the hell?"

Fusco shifted around so Christine could lean on him better. "Hey, Moss? We're all safe, okay? Try not to think about it too much. About the how. You'll just give yourself ulcers." He steered the woman toward the door. The same eager agent looked to Moss for permission, then held it open for them.

He pushed back his jacket to show his badge on his belt. "Get her a blanket for me, will you?"

"Right away."

"I'm not in shock," Christine complained as he guided her toward his car.

"Sure you're not." He leaned her against the car, flung the blanket over her shoulders. It was navy blue, with a big FBI crest on it. It was way nicer material than the NYPD blankets. "What do we do now?"

Christine brought one of the mints out of her pocket. She tried to unwrap it, but her hands shook too hard; Fusco did it for her, and she sucked on the candy thoughtfully while she looked up at the sky.

It was clear, bright blue. A few puffy clouds.

Colder than it had been that day, though. Fusco could see his breath.

"You should …" she began. She blinked back tears, like they were a surprise to her. "You should go get Lee. Take him out of school, go get dinner or something."

"Why? Are we still in danger?"

She shook her head. "No. They'll have everything locked down by now. We're okay."

Moss came over to them. He had his phone in his hand still, and he looked more puzzled. "My report is all complete." He looked up at the skyscraper behind them. "Bomb threat, but no actual explosives. Being classified as a prank, preliminarily, although we'll look at disgruntled employees. And I'm to stand by for further instructions." He rolled his eyes. "I still don't get it."

Fusco opened the car door.

"Where you going?" Moss demanded. "I have a million questions for you two."

Christine shrugged. "You know where to find me. I couldn't answer most of your questions even if I wanted to. You'll get your 'further instructions' at some point. Just go with it."

"And you're just going to leave? Just like that? Save the city and drive away?"

"Yeah." She got in the car.

Fusco closed the door behind her, then leaned closer to Moss. "You want to throw her a ticker-tape parade? You're going to have to explain to all these people what they're celebrating. And I don't think you want to do that."

"I don't have to tell you all of this is top secret, right? No talking about it to anyone."

The detective shrugged. "Not even to her?"

The FBI agent opened his mouth, then closed it. "Tell her not to leave town."

"Sure." Fusco walked around and got in the driver's seat. He looked at Christine. She was still awfully pale. "Where to?"

"You should go get Lee."

"I'll get him after school. You said we're safe, there's no point in scaring him half to death. And I, uh …" He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. He was as pale as he'd suspected. A little green at the gills. "I need a few minutes."

"Then … could we go to the Memorial?"

He didn't have to ask which memorial. "Yeah. But how come?"

Christine pulled the blanket closer around her. "So I can be sure it's still there."

Finch put his overcoat on. Then he paused and considered.

Compiling, he thought. There came a time in the development of every program when he needed to stop tweaking the code and just let it run. To take his fingers off the keyboard and let the process complete – or fail – on its own.

He'd been trying to put Christine Fitzgerald and John Reese together since he'd re-discovered the woman in her cyber café. It had been a maddeningly slow process. He'd had to take great care that neither of his notably hard-headed friends became aware of his intentions. A word here, a meeting there, an errand, a request. It had been a delicate process. And he had had doubts all along that it would succeed. Still, he patiently put the pieces in place.

It had, in the end, lacked a catalyst.

As unfortunate and terrifying as it had been, Christine's shooting and subsequent near-death experience had prompted the recognition Finch had been trying to lead them to.

Reese had stayed with the woman for two nights after she'd left the hospital. Two. One, Finch would have attributed to the former operative's stubborn insistence. But the fact that Christine had let him stay on a second night – that was the tell. The clear signal that something had changed between them.

Finally.

In the four weeks since, Reese had spent more time at Chaos than he had at the library.

Part of that was by Harold's design. Once he was aware of the relationship shift, Finch had done everything he could – without being noticed – to free up his friend's time. Some was Reese's own idea. He had been overtly solicitous, attentive to the wounded woman's every need. And she had let him stay.

Compiling, Finch thought again, with great satisfaction. And the time was very near when he would see if the program had run as it should, if the outcome was what he'd expected. Hoped for.

Finch wanted desperately to speak with the woman. He'd been aware that there had been B.A.D. activations before, but he'd never been privileged to listen in on one. He wanted to know everything that had happened – what she'd seen, what she'd heard, what she'd done. How she'd been recruited in the first place, and how she was kept updated. He has tasked the Machine with doing it, but he hadn't told it how. He'd trusted his code. He'd been right. But he was wildly curious about the details.

But they were compiling, and this was too rich an opportunity to ignore. To put Christine in John's arms when she was frightened and vulnerable…

He took off his coat and hung it back on the rack. Then he keyed his phone.

"Yes, Finch?"

"Mr. Cutter is being admitted for observation and further testing. They seem to think he's suffered a seizure of some kind."

"Imagine that."

"Since he will be well-supervised – and with the current flu epidemic, his visitors will be limited to immediately family – would it be possible for you to retrieve Miss Fitzgerald? I would very much like to talk with her about the alert. But there is a high probability that the FBI will be trying to keep her under surveillance …"

"I'll go get her, Finch."

"Thank you, Mr. Reese."

Harold sat down. The corners of his mouth twisted up, half smile and half smirk. As he'd expected, John had not put up even a token argument.

Compiling, he thought one more time, and from the look of it, the process had nearly reached its conclusion.

He nodded in satisfaction. Then he reached for his keyboard.

Donnelly stood up. He meant to go up to his room and change out of his workout clothes. But he stared at the now-blank screen thoughtfully. "Why New York?" he muttered.

"What?" Maxwell asked.

"They launched the missiles from Norfolk," he said slowly. "If they'd aimed them at D.C., we wouldn't have had time to stop them. No time even to call in the Wolves, let alone time for them to be effective."

"We got lucky," Irini said.

"Fortune favors the prepared," Poole said. "But you're right. Why not D.C.?"

"The president's out of the country," Northrup reminded them.

"And New York is the wounded heart of the nation," Donnelly added. "But that feels too … sentimental. For people who set out to destroy a city."

"What are you thinking?" Poole pushed.

"I don't know. It just doesn't …" Donnelly made a face. "Maybe because they're in D.C. and they didn't want to put themselves at risk?"

"Possible."

"And if that's true … then maybe Nine was right. Maybe we need to look at OSC."

Poole nodded. "Do it. But, uh, get some real clothes on first."

Donnelly looked down at his t-shirt and sweat pants. "You said there was no dress code."

"Yeah. I didn't mean it."

They stood together, Fitzgerald and Fusco, holding the railing, looking out over the fountains.

"Still here," Fusco said.

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

He looked over at her. He remembered it like it was yesterday. Standing outside the chain-link fence, keeping the onlookers away. Chrissy had been bone-skinny, pale. Sad. But clean, clear-eyed, for the first time in years. A bag of water bottles over her shoulder and rolls of silver duct tape up her arm like bangle bracelets. The dust and the smoke in the air, and the smell. Fire trucks and ambulances, because they still thought they were going to find survivors in the pile.

It was all bright and tidy now. Shiny. People walking around without paying attention to where they were. Talking on their cell phones. Arguing. Kissing.

It had been five minutes from being a smoking crater again. But no one here knew that. No one but him, and her.

Christine was smiling, calm. But she still had the FBI blanket wrapped around her shoulders, over her jacket. He didn't blame her a bit.

"Yeah," she said again, and in that one word she said she knew exactly what he was thinking. She took his hand.

A guy walked over to them, a vendor in white with a long apron. He had a carrier in his hand, with two cups on it. "You Fusco?" he asked.

"Yeah," the detective answered warily.

"This is for you." He handed him one of the cups. He gave the other cup to Christine, but looked back at Fusco. "Mr. Burdett says you're supposed to make sure she drinks it all."

"Okay."

Fusco reached for his wallet, but the man waved him off, smiling. "It's been taken care of. Believe me."

He walked away. Fusco sipped his beverage. Coffee, hot, black and strong. It was good.

Christine took one sip from her cup and then turned her head and spit it out.

"What?" he asked.

"I think it's supposed to be tea. Maybe. It tastes like syrup."

Fusco's phone rang. He clicked it on speaker without even looking at it.

"Drink the tea, Miss Fitzgerald," Finch said firmly.

"I don't want tea, and this has like five sugars in it."

"Six," the genius answered, "and a pinch of salt. Drink it. It will help with the shock."

"I'm not in shock."

"You're not giving up the blanket, I notice."

"I'm never giving up the blanket. I scrumped it fair and square. I'm adding it to my collection."

"You have a collection?" Fusco asked.

"Comforting textiles procured from federal agencies."

"Drink your tea," Finch insisted over the phone.

"Yuck." She took a sip, made a face, sipped a little more. "Can we talk? Can I come talk to you? I have so much I want to talk about."

"Of course." Fusco could hear the smile in the genius' voice. "Mr. Reese is on his way to pick you up. And I'll make you a better cup of tea when you get here."

"I am capable of hailing a cab, you know."

Fusco raised an eyebrow. It was good to hear her talk that way again. It meant she was getting back to her old self. Her old difficult self.

"There's some chance that Agent Moss has decided to follow you," Finch answered calmly. "It's better to take every precaution."

She sighed, mildly aggravated. "As you wish."

"I'll see you soon." The call went dead.

Christine looked at him. "Drink your tea," Fusco said.

She took one more sip. Then she took the lid off and poured the rest into the gutter.

Fusco shook his head, but he grinned at the same time. "I missed you, kid."