Lee Babbitt hung up the phone, stood up from the bench, and reached back like he was going to throw the phone into the trees. But he stopped himself, slipped it back in his pocket, and began walking up the path towards the National Mall.

—

Babbitt walked back out onto the road running alongside the National Mall with Gentry trailing two hundred feet behind, and while the butterfly sanctuary had been nearly empty, the road and the mall were chock-full of commuters, morning walkers and joggers, patrolling cops, and tourists.

Court wouldn’t be pulling his gun on anyone right here, right now.

Babbitt walked right past his car in the lot at the reflecting pool and continued on.

Court stopped under a cherry tree, not yet in bloom, and he let Babbitt go. To Court’s surprise, the big man headed straight towards the Capitol building.

Softly, Court said, “What the hell are you doing now?”

Babbitt disappeared heading into the East Portico, and Gentry headed south, back in the direction of his car.

As he walked he took his hand off the small Ruger pistol he carried in the left-hand pocket of his jacket, and he used the same hand to pull his baseball cap down lower over his eyes. His right hand remained in his pants pocket, which kept his sore arm from swinging while he walked.

He stopped at a hot dog cart on the mall, bought a bottled water, and drank a few sips while he stood there, allowing himself one last glance at the U.S. Capitol. This was his first real look at the building since he’d been back in town, the first time he took the opportunity to take in any of the sights here in D.C.

For five long years he’d been outside of the USA, and each and every day during that time he’d thought something of home. Now that he was back he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of devoting any real time to enjoying himself, to relaxing, or to appreciating his triumphant return, such as it was. But for just this moment he gazed upon one of the greatest structures in America, and he felt the power of the symbol and the love for his country in his heart, deep in his bones.

He shook away the moment. Despite the emotions welling inside him, it would not do to stop and stare. He was in cover, and his cover wasn’t some wide-eyed foreign tourist.

And if he blew his cover now, agents of the America he loved so much would find him and shoot him dead in the street.

But his cover was solid, because unlike all of his other operations, in this rare case his cover identity matched his true identity. He was American. He’d been gone for a while, but he was still American, and now he was home.