Diving up the George Washington Memorial Parkway toward Langley, he tried to make sense of things, but there were still some missing pieces. He hoped to get some answers, but wasn’t holding his breath. He didn’t expect to learn much more than he already knew.

Following Cantrell’s instructions, he stayed on the GW Parkway and took the exit ramp directly north of CIA headquarters. He drove up a gentle slope and stopped under the guardhouse canopy. It felt a little strange telling the guards he was here to see the head honcho, but from their reactions—or more accurately, lack thereof—they’d obviously been prepped for his arrival. Most people stared at his face when they first met him, something he’d accepted over the years. He never took it personally, but sometimes getting no reaction felt worse. Those people tended to treat him like a leper.

The entry guards directed him forward to a small parking area just outside the red vehicle barriers. He turned off the engine and relaxed, wondering how many video cameras had already, and currently were, recording his every move. If possible, he planned to keep this meeting cordial. He hadn’t requested it, Cantrell had. He had little doubt she could be a formidable enemy and he didn’t want to spoil the rapport he’d developed with her, if he could call it that.

Ten minutes later, she arrived in a convoy of three white sedans. He climbed out and felt the telltale tingling itch of healing flesh on the soles of his feet.

As quickly as he’d stepped out, he found himself surrounded by four nicely dressed agents with bulges under their coats.

The passenger window of the middle sedan rolled down, revealing Director Rebecca Cantrell.

“Hop in.”

“I’m impressed,” he said as he took a seat and belted in. He made eye contact with each agent. “For a second, I thought you boys were going to tackle me.”

“They just needed to be sure it was you, not someone wearing a Nathan McBride mask.”

He pointed to his mug. “Kinda hard to copy, don’t you think?”

“But not impossible.”

“Where’re we going?”

“I thought we’d do a late lunch at the Congressional Country Club. It’s only a few miles away. Sound okay?”

“The Congressional Country Club?”

She shrugged. “It’s a private golf course, that kind of country club.”

“My treat?” he offered.

“Sure, why not.”

“Are you always escorted like this?”

“Pretty much. A lot of things changed after nine-eleven.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

“I know you’re curious about Ironclad, and rightfully so. You’re probably wondering why, out of all the unsavory interrogators in the world, Montez was offered the job.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”