This was completely outside of protocol. We should have waited for backup, but with the potential for so much collateral damage, we weren’t willing to delay any further.

Without another word, Siegel came out of his crouch and sprinted across the street. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.

I counted to three to put some space between us, then started running with my head down. Another window shattered somewhere behind me. I barely noticed. My only focus right now was on getting to the other side of that apartment building’s front door — and then getting inside after Hennessey.

Chapter 105

ONCE INSIDE, I took the stairs. It was ten flights to the roof, but I’m in pretty good shape. Adrenaline did its job, too.

A few minutes later, I was coming out on top of the Midlands. It was a strange déjà vu — a lot like the other night at the museum.

I swept my Glock left and right — nothing. No one behind the door either.

I’d come out through a utility room, and the walls were blocking my view of the Twelfth Street side of the building. That’s where Hennessey would have been shooting from if he was here.

Sirens were wailing in the distance; with any luck, they were headed my way.

I pressed my back against the wall and moved slowly to the corner, weapon first.

The street side of the roof, though dimly lit, looked deserted to me. There were a couple of folding lawn chairs and a steel barrel lying on its side.

No sign of Hennessey, though.

I came to the edge and looked out. Twelfth Street was quiet down below. Other than the Bureau car with its doors open and a patch of broken glass on the ground, there wasn’t any indication of what had just happened.

A few people were even walking by, oblivious to the damage.

Then, as I leaned out for a better look, my foot hit something that made a small, metallic clinking sound. I took out my Maglite and pointed it at the ground to see what it was.

Shell casings. Several of them.

My pulse spiked, and I turned around — right into the barrel of a Walther nine millimeter.

The man with his finger on the trigger, presumably Steven Hennessey, held the pistol up about an inch from my forehead.

“Don’t move,” he said. “Not a goddamn muscle. I won’t miss from this distance.”

Chapter 106

HE’D DONE A pretty good job of changing his appearance — glasses, dark hair, clean-shaven. Enough to let him move around the city anyway.

And probably enough to walk away from here unrecognized, too, I realized. It was all starting to fall into place.

“Hennessey?”

“Depends who you ask,” he answered.