Reese tugged at the collar of his uniform shirt. He didn't like the way it felt. The fabric contained a lot of polyester and it made his neck sweaty. There had been a time when he'd worn a shirt like this every day and it hadn't bothered him. But now he was accustomed to finer things, like pure cotton shirts that someone else ironed for him.

He had a radio in the holster on his belt. He had a gun strapped to his ankle, but his co-workers didn't know that. Only Edwins was carrying openly. The third member of the team, a sixty year old man with skin the color of espresso, was named Vincent. Despite his gray hair, Vincent moved like he was very fit. "You look like a runner," Reese observed easily, once the introductions had been made.

"You got a good eye. Run marathons. I'm not fast, but I always finish."

"Good for you."

"You?"

"Little of everything," Reese admitted. "But I don't have the knees for distance running anymore."

"You and me both," Edwins teased lightly.

John glanced at the man's leg; he had a faint but obvious limp. "What happened? Can I ask?"

"Car crash." Edwins handed him a flat white card on a lanyard. "This scan card will get you through any door in the building," he said. "Don't lose it, and don't forget to turn it in before you leave. Why don't you take the walk-around first?" he directed. "Just pick a floor, stroll through, go to the next floor. Sound off it you see anything unusual. It'll give you a chance to get familiar with the building."

"Sounds good," Reese said.

"Come back down in an hour and we'll switch off." He looked to Vincent. "Front or back?"

"Ehhh, back."

"Good."

They split up. Reese took the elevator to the top floor. It was quiet and dim, with only the security lights on. He tapped his earpiece. "Finch?"

"I'm here, Mr. Reese."

"Anything more on our boy?"

Finch sighed heavily. "I'm afraid so. I managed to access his cloud files. More of the same. Much more."

John stopped at the end of the hall and leaned against the wall. "So he claimed to be a young woman who'd been mugged and raped."

"And one whose premature children had died. One who was being molested by her step-brother. Several who were contemplating suicide for various reasons. That seems to be a particular favorite of his. Oh, and one who had had a cocaine-induced stroke and was now living in nursing home, where she was being abused by the staff."

"He wasn't scamming people for money, though."

"No." Finch's words were clipped. "He apparently perpetuated his little dramas solely for the purpose of gaining attention. He told these people his sad stories and they did everything they could to comfort and help him. They were completely invested in mitigating his imaginary distress."

"You think someone would try to kill him over that?"

"As Miss Fitzgerald pointed out, if I were the parent of real children who had actually died, and I learned that this young man had played on my sympathies this way? I might be … tempted, at any rate."

Reese resumed his walk. He checked the office doors as he went, but all of them were locked. "How did they find him?"

"It would be difficult, but not impossible. Mr. Cutter seems to interact with the forums only when he's at work, using the various wi-fi systems throughout the office building. Anyone who managed to trace his IP would assume it had been bounced. But if they took a closer look, they might be able to determine his identity."

"Or at least that he was one of the guards," John completely. "One of three. Might be easy to narrow it down from there.

"Most of the men he works with are older. A number of them are, like Mr. Edwins, retired police officers supplementing their income. He is the most obvious suspect, once someone realized how they'd been deceived."

He took the stairs down to the next floor. "Once they knew where he worked," Reese said, "it would be no problem to follow him home. He doesn't pay attention to his surroundings." He tried another doorknob, and unexpectedly the door opened. He frowned, stepped into the office. It was an accounting firm, and it was dark and quiet. "Hold on, Finch." Reese picked up his radio. "Edwins? It's Holt."

"Go ahead," the former cop answered immediately.

"I've got an open door on 28."

"2810?" the man guessed immediately.

"Yes."

"They do that all the time. Take a look around, but if it's clear, just press that red button inside the door. That will lock it."

"Will do."

"Let me know when you've cleared it."

Reese put his radio away and moved quickly through the space. There was no one there. He locked the door and went back to the hallway. "All clear," he reported on the radio.

"Ten-four."

He got back in touch with Finch. "We'll need to stay close to Cutter, once he leaves the hospital."

"Most assuredly. Although – given what I'm hearing on the bug, Mr. Cutter will never want to go home."

"How's that?"

"He's reveling, for lack of a better word, in the attention."

"Just like he did online."

"Yes. I'm afraid this incident may move Mr. Cutter right into an actual diagnosable case of Munchhausen's disease."

"I'd like to move him into a jail cell."

"I'm not sure that anything Mr. Cutter has done is technically illegal."

Reese growled. "There's got to be something."

"I'll keep looking. But since he hasn't taken any money, it will be difficult to prove anything beyond, perhaps, harassment."

"Find something, Finch. This punk doesn't get to walk behind this."

"I'll do my best, Mr. Reese."

Donnelly pushed back from his desk and rubbed his eyes. He'd been looking at the screen so long the words had begun to blur together.

There were a million details flowing into the Den. Some of them were important. Most weren't. They were working to sort it all. Lots of leads. Lots of suspects. Most of the government and all of the military was in a tizzy. He'd read a quote once, somewhere: The only good government is a bad government in a hell of a scare. That was where they were now. All the agencies working together, willingly, eagerly. All the data flowing like water. It wouldn't last, of course. By morning the scare would begin to fade and the agencies resume withholding data from each other.

But they couldn't withhold it from Asena, and she would put it all together.

At least, he devoutly hoped she would.

He dropped his chin to his chest, moved his hands to the back of his neck, and rubbed firmly. It didn't help much.

Coffee, he thought remotely. More coffee. He'd had so much that he couldn't even taste it anymore, but he stood up and walked to the kitchen for more. It wasn't as good as Scotty's. No one's was.

Reese worked through the cycles of guarding. After his hour of wandering the halls, he sat for an hour at the loading dock desk, and another in the lobby. It was quiet and boring. He didn't see anything that got him any closer to knowing who wanted Cutter dead.

It still beat the hell out of humping bags around the Coronet Hotel.

Finch had loaded a dozen books on an e-reader for him, but Reese didn't read any of them. He looked around, and he thought about things.

He didn't come to any conclusions about anything, except to decide that he was very tired.

Edwins came down at the end of the third hour and relieved him. "Take your dinner break," he said.

Reese went and got his lunch, then went back out to the front desk. "My girl packed me an extra sandwich," he said. "You want it?"

The former cop looked at him. "What kind?"

"The big kind. She calls it a Dagwood. Whatever that is."

Edwins nodded, and Reese gave him one of the sandwiches, got the other out for himself. They were huge, wrapped in tin foil, and very fresh. "You don't know Dagwood?" Edwins asked.

"No."

"It's a cartoon. Dagwood and Blondie. He's always hungry, makes these huge sandwiches with everything on them." He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. "This is really good."

"I know," Reese said, around his own bite.

"Your girl made you two of these? How come so much?"

"Her mom's always on to her make sure I get enough to eat. Like I've going to starve overnight."

"Italian girl?"

"Yeah."

Edwins nodded. "My wife was Italian. Her mother fed me every time she saw me. And her grandmother, too, when she was living. Man, they were good cooks."

"She says that's how they tell us they love us," John said.

"I suppose that's true. And believe me, I never complained. Except when I had to pass my physical every year."

"You were a regular cop?" Reese asked easily.

"Eighteen years. Then I was in a car crash, screwed up my leg. I told you that already, didn't I? Two big pieces of titanium in it now. Leg's probably worth more than my life insurance."

"You didn't want to stay on the force, finish your twenty?."

"I could've, behind a desk, but they offered me a buy-out. So, whatever, take the money, get this job, sit on my ass and not have to deal with the brass. It was a good deal."

"More time for your wife to feed you," Reese agreed.

Edwins shook his head. "She's been gone six years now. Cancer."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "She went quick. It was better that way. And the kids, they're all married, got their own lives. So it's pretty much just me."

"Lonely?"

"Well, I got you and Vincent." Edwins waved his sandwich. "And I think I'm in love with your girl."

Reese smiled. "She's pretty special."

"So what are your plans, John?"

"With the girl? Haven't decided yet."

"The girl, the job, your life. You aren't gonna stay a night watchman forever."

"How do you know that?"

Edwins wiped his mouth. "Cop for eighteen years, remember? I got to know people, just to look at them. You, you're more than this." He waved at the empty lobby. "You're okay with this for a while, but you came from better things and you'll go back to them. This isn't your life. It's just where you're taking a little break."

"I guess you're right about that," Reese allowed.

"Now guys like me, I already had a career, and Vincent had one, too. We're here for the long haul. And punks like Cutter, the guy you're filling in for? He's here because he's too lazy to do anything else. But you? You're just passing through."

"Maybe so." John took a bite, chewed slowly. Finally he swallowed. "Cutter, that's his name? Head office, when they called me in, they said he got poisoned?"

"He got CO poisoning in his apartment. Squirrel's nest in his furnace vent. I guess when it's been so warm these past couple days. Then it got cold and the heat kicked on."

"Huh. That's the stuff that makes you fall asleep, right? He's lucky he woke up."

"Not lucky. Guys like you and me? We go home in the morning and go to bed. Cutter jumps on his video game like he was a teenager."

"When does he sleep?"

Edwins smirked. "At work, when he's supposed to be walking around. At least I think that's what he does. That or surfing for porn. Sure was hell he doesn't do any walking around."

John considered a moment. "2810. You unlocked that door, didn't you?"

"Well, I gotta check up on my new guy, don't I?"

Reese grinned ruefully. "I guess you do."

"Cutter never finds them. Never. I've written him up a couple times. But hell, he works his shifts and he shows up sober, they're not going to do anything about him." He shrugged. "Sooner or later it'll catch up to him, though. Guys like that, lazy, always seeing what they can get away with? Sooner or later they do something they can't get away with, and then it all comes home to roost."

"Yeah," John answered, careful to sound unconvinced. "I'm not so sure about that."

Edwins looked out over the lobby thoughtfully. "I am."

Nicholas Donnelly paced the length of his cubicle-sized office slowly. It was six small steps from the door to the back wall: If he paced too quickly he got dizzy. But if he sat at the desk any more he was going to fall asleep. Again.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. It still hurt from where it had collided with his keyboard.

"Crime report headlines," he said. "Start with New York."

The computer began reading off headlines as instructed. It started with murders. He listened to three, then said, "Stop. Display on screens."

The harsh metallic voice fell silent. The headlines appeared on his computer screen. He leaned on the back of his chair and read them. Murders. Attempted murders. Armed robberies. A break-in at a bank, no money stolen. A penthouse apartment cleaned out while its owners were in San Tropez. Half a dozen houses robbed. More than a dozen cars …

Donnelly paused. He was missing something.

He scrolled back to the top of the screen. Murders. Attempted murders. Armed robberies. A break-in …

He clicked on the link. A bank branch was broken into. Some equipment stolen, but the vault hadn't been opened.

Donnelly straightened up. Why rob a bank when all the money was locked up? If you were after computers, there were a million offices in the city with a lot less security. Why a bank?

He clicked through to the preliminary FBI report. The items stolen were all electronics. Computers, surveillance cameras, monitors. Alarms and phone lines were cut, and exterior cameras had been disabled. From Donnelly's initial read, it had been a sophisticated operation, very professional. Which led back to the question: Why at night, when the money is locked up? Why go to so much trouble if you weren't after the cash?

From the report, they hadn't even tried to open the vault.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He ran his hand over it. Yes, something there. Something he should see. What the hell was it?

He could hear the gears in his brain grinding. This should be easy, obvious. He was too damn tired to think.

New York. Bank. Computers. Missiles.

"Oh, hell."

He sat down and clicked on the address of the bank. Almost immediately, the computer came up with what he already knew: the same building had been evacuated the day before, in a bomb scare.

He opened another program. Christine had called him, from her phone. There would be a trail. There wasn't supposed to be, as far as the public knew, but there was – and in the Den, he had immediate access. In the ten seconds it took the data to come up, he turned his head toward the open door and yelled, "Director! I've got something."

Poole came to the doorway, with Maxwell behind him. "What'd you find?"

"Nine," Donnelly said, still typing, narrowing the data. "Bad Wolf Nine called my cell phone yesterday."

"I was there."

"The signal came from this specific section of the city." He pointed to his screen, a ring overlaid on a map of the city. "In the middle of it is this office tower. The building was evacuated yesterday – at the time of the incident – because of a reported bomb threat. No bomb was found. But the ground floor of the building is a bank branch."

"Right," Maxwell said. "So Nine was there, using the computers for the Rally Call, and the Source cleared the whole building to give her room to work. That's SOP. So what?"

"The bank was broken into last night," Donnelly announced. "No money was taken – just the computers and the surveillance system."

The men looked at each other. Poole whistled, impressed. "They think they can trace back to the Source from the computers she used."

"We did think they were probing our defenses," Maxwell agreed.

"Can they trace her?" Donnelly worried aloud. "If they have unlimited time to take those computers apart, can they find a way back to her?"

Poole shook his head. "The Source is way better than that. She wouldn't leave a trail."

Donnelly found he agreed. He knew Asena well. She was far more clever than they were.

"But maybe," Poole continued, "the thieves left a trail."

"Find the thieves, find their masters."

"Exactly. Good work. Tip off the FBI office in New York, put a red flag on it. We want these people found."

Maxwell said, "We theorized that they might be tracking more than one of the Wolves. Let's look for similar break-ins."

"Yes," Poole said. "This is what we needed."

They left to brief the others. Donnelly let himself revel in the small victory for a moment. Then he started to compose an e-mail to the senior agent in New York. The Source would mask its origin, but would make sure it got top priority.

He composed the message to a specific agent. He knew Brian Moss in passing – had known him, in his previous life. He was a good agent. A good investigator. Not as good as Donnelly had been, of course. He was completely blind to what Carter was up to, and to the fact that the Man in the Suit was still very much alive. Of course, now that Donnelly knew the assets the Man had behind him, it was hard to image that anyone would ever catch him. He would make a mistake some day and end up dead, but until then, no one was going to be able to break his cover.

He took a certain grim satisfaction in that. Donnelly had caught him, however briefly – and John had been living under the divine protection of Asena herself. Now that he knew who his opponent had actually been, he was pretty damn impressed with the success he'd had.

Asena had protected the Man in the Suit, and she would protect her Bad Wolves as well. These thieves weren't after Christine anyhow. They had to know she didn't have any useful information. They were after the computers. They were trying to find the Source.

Good luck with that, he thought. You have no idea what you're up against. He grinned wearily as he typed.

Reese left the Marshall Building first, then waited out of sight for Edwins to exit. "Finch," he said while he waited, "what's the word on Cutter?"

"He's scheduled to be discharged first thing this morning," Harold answered immediately.

"All right. I'll head over there and make sure he gets home safe. Then we're going to need Fusco to come watch him. I've got to get some sleep."

"I've already made arrangements on that front, Mr. Reese."

John nodded to himself. "Good man, Finch."

"Why, thank you."

Edwins came out of the building and walked around the block to the same deli Cutter had visited the day before. There was the same orderly line, the same quick waitress/cashier behind the counter. Reese watched through the window. It was clear that Edwins knew the woman; after he'd paid for his sandwich, he lingered in the way to walk to her.

Whatever he said, the gray-haired woman at first frowned, then smiled reassuringly. Edwins only stayed a few minutes, but Reese got the impression they knew each other very well.

The former cop walked the opposite direction from the subway. Reese watched him out of sight, then hailed a cab.

He used the skills he'd learned from the CIA and slept for twenty-four minutes on the way to the hospital.

Carter got to the precinct before Fusco in the morning. When he walked in, she was leaning on the edge of his desk, tapping her foot. "Am I late?"

"Late enough," she snapped. She jerked her head toward the interrogation room. "Let's go."

"What, I can't even take my coat off?"

"Now, Fusco." She stamped off.

The detective grinned. He took his coat off, a little more slowly than he needed to, and hung it on a hook. Then he walked, again slowly, back to the little room.

Before he even got the door shut, Special Agent Brian Moss came striding across the squad room. He saw them and came immediately to the door. "Detective Carter, could you excuse us, please?"

Carter shook her head. "He's my partner. You got …"

"Detective. Please."

She bristled visibly at his tone. Then she turned and walked out. Slowly.

"This better be good," Fusco said. "You just pissed off my partner first thing in the morning."

"The incident yesterday," Moss said quickly. "With Miss Fitzgerald."

"Yeah, I kinda remember that."

"I need to know why she picked that particular location."

Fusco looked at him. The FBI agent was wide-eyed, impatient. He'd been, the times Fusco had seen him, a lot more laid back than Donnelly had been. But if FBI agents got freaked out, Moss was right there. Hair on fire freaked. Carefully, he answered, "It was where we were."

"What does that mean?"

"I took her to my son's school for lunch. We were on our way back …"

"You're dating?"

"That's none of your business."

Moss blinked. "Right. Fine. You were saying?"

"We were on our way back and her phone went off. Made this sound I've never heard before. She told me to stop the car, right there. She got out, looked around, picked the bank. Why?"

"So it was completely random?"

"Why are you asking?"

"It was random?" Moss repeated firmly.

"Yeah. It was random."

The agent nodded. 'Thank you, Detective."

He headed for the door. Fusco got there first. "Nu-uh. Why are you asking?"

"That's … classified."

Fusco glared at him.

Moss looked around. "The bank," he said reluctantly, "was robbed last night."

"How much did they get?"

"Money? None. It was all in the vault. They didn't even try to open it."

"So what'd they take?"

Moss looked around again. He lowered his voice. "All the computers. And all the surveillance cameras."

"What?"

"Yeah, I know."

"What the hell does that mean?"

The FBI agent shook his head. "I have no idea. But I know it's not good."

When Moss left, Fusco started back to his desk. Carter met him halfway. "What was that about?"

"Can't tell you. Moss says it's top secret."

"You don't have top secret clearance," Carter snapped.

"Not allowed to talk about it," Fusco insisted. "Matter of national security."

Joss nodded thoughtfully. "You remember that night in the hotel, when Donnelly had John cornered? And I pulled my weapon on you in the men's room?"

"I remember," he admitted ruefully.

"You gonna make me do that again? Because I will, believe me."

Fusco grinned. He looked past her to make sure Moss was gone. Then he took her arm and led her toward the door. "Let's go for a drive."

"Finch?" Reese said. "Cutter's home safe."

"I know," Finch answered in his ear.

"Where are you?"

"I'll meet you outside Mr. Cutter's apartment."

John rolled his eyes and went inside the building. When he reached Cutter's apartment, the door across the hall opened and Finch gestured for him to come inside.

"Let me guess," Reese said as he closed the door behind him, "you bought an apartment building."

"No, of course not. I did sublet this apartment for two weeks, thought, while its tenant went on a vacation to Key West."

"Hemingway fan?"

Finch gave him a small approving smile. "I think it was more the lure of tropical drinks. In any case," he gestured around the apartment, "I thought this would be a useful base of operation." His computer was already running on the tiny kitchenette table. "I took the liberty of bringing our own linens. The bed is made, and there are clean towels in the bathroom."

"And naturally you brought me a change of clothes."

"Naturally. Would you like some breakfast?"

Reese shook his head. "Shower. Sleep." He paused in the doorway. "Christine went home?"

Finch had already returned to his computer. He nodded.

"Did you check on her this morning?"

Harold looked up. "I have not. I'll call her, if you like."

Reese considered. Finch didn't sound either pleased or displeased with the idea. He seemed completely neutral. Not concerned about her, not unwilling to contact her. Whatever Zoe thought, John couldn't get a read. "She may still be asleep."

"I'll let you know if I hear from her."

John nodded and went to shower.

Finch made himself a fresh cup of tea – he'd brought his own supplies – and sat down in front of his computer again. He'd also hauled in two extra screens, so that he could watch their client on one while he unraveled the man's e-mails on the other.

Mr. Reese had showered and fallen into bed. The door was partly open; a loud call would bring him to Finch's side. But for the moment, he was deeply asleep.

Jason Cutter was, in Finch's opinion, an utterly horrible person. As he followed the threads of Cutter's posts, under various names in various forums, his utter distain for the man grew. Cutter was a brilliant manipulator. He knew when to push, when to apologize and retreat. When to drop another bombshell lie to rally the attention and sympathy back to his character.

All of the threads were carefully saved on Cutter's cloud account.

He collected the genuine caring of good-hearted people like trophies on a hunter's electronic wall.

On the other screen, the young man continued to play video games with joyful relish.

Finch stood up and walked to the window. There was no view, of course. Just another brick wall a few feet away. The apartment was small and cluttered and had a peculiar smell.

He wondered, as he had wondered before, if some of the people they saved were really worth saving at all.

Of course they were, he argued with himself. Every single person on the planet was worth saving, because every single person had potential. They could change, reform, do good. Anyone, no matter what they'd done in their past. Anyone could learn. Could change.

But he didn't see much sign that Mr. Cutter had the slightest interest in changing.

He had to be saved, Finch decided. That went without saying. But he also had to be stopped.

There were no laws against what Cutter was doing. It was horrible, reprehensible, but it wasn't illegal. It should be, Finch thought. The kind of emotional pain Cutter was inflicting on the people who were trying desperately to help him—

Finch heard a knock and looked toward the apartment door. Then he realized it had come from the computer. He moved back to the table and watched.

Cutter grumbled as he paused his game and went to the door. He looked through the peephole, then opened the door. An older woman stood outside, bundled in her winter coat, with a paper bag in one hand and a disposable cup of coffee in the other.

"What are you doing here?" Cutter asked bluntly.

"I heard what happened to you," the woman said. "I'm so sorry. I thought I'd see if you were home yet, if you're like some breakfast." She held out her parcels to him.

The young man took them. "How did you know where I lived?"

"I … called the office. I've seen your name tag, so I knew … I told them I was your aunt. How are you doing? Is there anything you need?"

"A swift kick in the pants," Finch muttered under his voice.

Cutter seemed to pull himself together. "No, I'm fine. Um … do you want to come in?"

The woman smiled, but shook her head. "No, I've got to get home. I just wanted to check in on you. I know you don't have anyone – that's hard, isn't it? When you're all alone?"

The young man nodded. "Um … thank you."

The woman walked away.

Cutter closed the door and went back to his couch. He unpacked his sandwich, took a bite. Then he spit it back into the bag. "Ugh. Tastes like shit." He threw the rest of the sandwich in and tossed it in the general direction of the trash can.

"You ungrateful little …" Finch muttered. Then intuition grabbed at his gut. He thought quickly, then put on his overcoat. He checked his pocket for the proper card, then went across the hall and knocked briskly on Cutter's door.

There was audible swearing, and then a long pause before the young man opened the door. He glared at Finch. He had the coffee cup in his hand, still with the lid on. "Who are you?"

Finch pushed up his glasses. "Harold Wren," he said, offering a business card. "Universal Heritage Insurance."

The young man squinted at him. "I don't need any insurance."

"No, no," Finch said. "I'm not selling anything, I assure you. I represent the management company for this building. I understand that you had a medical issue as a result of your recent – accident."

"Huh?"

"You were hospitalized?" Finch prompted.

"Yeah. I just got home. But I have insurance."

"Yes, of course. But in the event that there are expenses that are not covered by your insurance, the management company has authorized Universal Heritage to reimburse you for those expenses."

Cutter blinked at him. "Huh?"

"If there are expenses that your insurance does not cover, deductibles or incidentals, please contact me and Universal Heritage will reimburse them for you."

"Oh." Cutter examined the card with more interest. "Oh."

"You understand that this offer is not an admission of any liability on the part of the management company."

The young man's eyes lit up. "Right. Of course."

"It is merely a courtesy that the company wishes to extend to you, as a valued tenant."

"Right."

"And you'll need to sign a form to that effect before any funds can be distributed."

"Uh-huh."

Finch paused. "Well. You must be tired from your experience. I won't trouble you any further. But as I said, if you do incur any expense, please don't hesitate to contact my office."

"I will do that," Cutter said.

Finch could hear the hopeful dollar signs in his voice. He pretended to ignore it. He stuck his hand out. "It's been very nice to meet you, Mr. Cutter."

Cutter shifted his cup from one hand to the other. Finch moved his hand the wrong way, awkwardly, and knocked the cup away. The lid came off when the cup hit his shoe, spilling the entire contents onto the carpet in the hallway.

"Damn it!" Cutter said.

"I am so sorry," Finch said quickly. "I am – I was clumsy, I apologize, I didn't mean … if you could lend me a towel, paper towels, I'll …

"Forget it," Cutter said. "The building will clean it up. And I'll, uh, add it to my bill." He grinned wolfishly and closed the door in Finch's face.

Finch leaned and picked up the cup carefully. There was a small amount left in the bottom. He carried it back to the other apartment.

He was not surprised to find Reese standing at the table, waiting for him. He looked blank, still tired and more annoyed than angry.

"A woman brought him breakfast," Finch began to explain.

Reese nodded grimly. "I re-wound the tape. She's from the place around the corner from the Marshall Building. He stops there every morning."

"So perhaps I wasted his coffee for nothing."

"Edwins stopped and talked to her this morning."

"Or perhaps I saved his life."

Reese sighed. "Get the coffee analyzed. And don't go over there again without waking me up."

"Of course, Mr. Reese."

John stared at him for a moment. Then he went back to the bedroom without a word.

Finch sat down and slipped his shoe off. It was leather and well-conditioned; it might survive the soaking. He got a paper towel and dried it carefully. Then he found a small container and poured the remainder of the coffee into it. He called a courier service, then sat down to write a note for Detective Fusco.

On the screen, Cutter continued to play his video game.

Brian Moss looked around the empty command center. It was an impressive set-up: rows of tables, all lined with computers. Up on the old stage was a massive bank of viewscreens. It was all wired and operational, exactly as it had been left. He could put a hundred agents to work in this room.

From this room Nicholas Donnelly had run his massive search for the elusive Man in the Suit. Eventually he'd both succeeded and failed in that quest: The Man and his partner had killed Donnelly, but had subsequently been killed themselves. Moss had come in on the clean-up. A literal clean-up, he reflected ruefully. They had scraped bits of Snow and Stanton off about three city blocks.

Now the command center was his to command. His superiors were frantic to identify the people who had stolen the computers from the bank. They felt that those thieves would lead them to the people who had tried to decimate New York City the day before. It made sense to Moss. But what the hell those terrorists had hoped to achieve?

Terror, of course. Even a relatively small explosion was enough to fill the citizens with panic. The Boston Marathon bombing had proved that. But he had the sense that there was something else going on, something far bigger than he was allowed to know about.

The level of technology and cooperation he'd witness the day before was, frankly, terrifying. That a hacker could be contacted, walk off the street, and be granted access to everything from fighter pilots to the Pentagon – that there was a protocol in place for exactly that to happen – it made his stomach churn. He was glad there was such a program, glad it had worked, but what if it hadn't?

The idea of putting the safety of the nation in the hands of Scotty Fitzgerald and her hacking buddies made his palms sweat. She was a nice lady. She made good coffee. She helped her neighborhood. But for the love of God ….

He shook his head. It had happened. The missiles had been diverted. It was over. Now it was his job to find the people behind it. His job. And he had the tools to do exactly that.

He nodded in satisfaction at the command center he'd inherited from Nicholas Donnelly. Then he turned his attention to staffing it quickly.

Donnelly had trusted Detective Carter. Moss knew for himself that she was a highly capable investigator. She was in Homicide, but she knew the city well. She would be a valuable team member. Whatever hesitation he'd had about her when she was involved with Cal Beecher had been laid to rest with the detective.

It probably wouldn't hurt to keep her partner close, too. Fusco had a decidedly spotty record, but he undeniably had Fitzgerald's trust, and that might be important at some point in the investigation.

He'd been told in no uncertain terms that he could use whatever resources he needed. Those two were definitely resources. And invitations were clearly in order.