The search continued, but now at a slower pace. Closets opened by heavily armed police, civilians cleared and let go, aisles and bins explored and probed, storerooms and break rooms penetrated. It might, it could, maybe it would, yield something—but neither Nick nor Bob held out much hope.

Meanwhile, FBI techs dusted the car for prints and in a fast first pass had come up with two of Juba’s right thumb, and lots of others, which meant that one trophy of the operation—a consolation prize, to be sure—would be a whole set of prints. They also noted a pile of plastic grit in the well of the backseat and half the butt of a shotgun.

“He’s cut it down for practicality,” said Bob. “He can hide it better, pull it out fast.”

Nick nodded, then he had to go back to the phone for the tenth time. This round, he was on it with D.C. for a long time, explaining, taking responsibility, offering his resignation twice, both times turned down, because the people there only were interested in one thing: what does Swagger think?

“They think you’re a god. Don’t worry, I won’t tell them the truth. Anyway, talk to them.” He handed the phone over.

“Swagger.”

“You’re on speakerphone with the Director and four Assistant Directors and the head of the Counterterrorism Division,” said the voice.

“What can I do?” said Swagger.

“Your read, please, Mr. Swagger.”

“We almost got him. We know he was there. In my humble, Director, Memphis put together a brilliant plan on the fly and—”

“Swagger, no, leave that for later. Tell us where you think we are and what you think is next.”

“I would just add that we have consistently underestimated this guy.” Oops, maybe that was selling out Nick. Can’t do that. “I mean, I have continually underestimated this guy. Everything we throw at him is nothing new. He’s done it before. He doesn’t panic, he doesn’t quit, he improvises. He’s a pro’s pro.”

“Your next move would be . . . ?”