First, Zoe’s storm track had bent further, sending it almost directly northwest now, aiming it squarely towards Washington DC. The Mayor of DC had ordered an evacuation of the city. The governors of Virginia and Maryland had ordered evacuations of counties in the storm’s path. The DHS and other agencies had backed up those orders, commanding only essential personnel to stay. Holtzmann wasn’t among them.

Second, a new message on the Nexus board, just minutes old.

[Friday night, during the storm. Staffing will be bare bones. A fire alarm will go off in a different wing of your building. Get your friends out. Get them to Pecan Street. A white van will meet them.]

Holtzmann stared at the message, read it again and again. Someone else. They had someone else inside. Someone who could pull that alarm.

But they needed him too. He’d have to stay, to find some way to free Rangan and the children, without being caught himself.

Three hours later, Anne was gone. She’d woken, then started packing for evacuation. He’d told her he was staying. She’d screamed at him, then pleaded with him, alternated between the two, telling him he was going mad, telling him he was throwing his life away, throwing her life away. In the end, she’d gone without him.

Noon on Thursday now. Wind was picking up outside. In less than thirty-two hours, he’d be breaking prisoners out of ERD Headquarters. Madness.

There was one other piece of madness to attend to. He picked up the phone, dialed Claire Becker.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Claire, it’s Martin Holtzmann.”

“Martin… Anne said you had a fight…”

“Claire, I’m looking for any files Warren may have left behind. Anything from the early days of the ERD, or even further back, from his time at the FBI.”

“Martin… I know Anne thinks I’m crazy. But I think they killed him. To keep him quiet.”

“I know, Claire.”

She went silent for a moment. Then, “You believe me?” Her voice sounded girlish – vulnerable.

Holtzmann sighed. “I don’t know. But I don’t think you’re crazy. And I don’t think it’s impossible.”

She responded with relief. “Oh my God, thank you, Martin, thank you, thank you–”

“Claire,” he cut her off. “What I’m looking for in Warren’s files… If I found it, it would be the opposite of keeping him quiet. You understand?”

There was silence across the line again. Then Claire Becker spoke.

“We’re about to leave, Martin. In the evacuation. The girls are almost finished packing. If there are any files, they’d be in Warren’s office. I can give you the door code…”

An hour later he was on his way to the Becker home.

Holtzmann punched the door code into the panel inset on the Beckers’ front door. The lock flashed green at him, and its motor whirred as the deadbolt slid open.