He struggled through a shower that semi-restored him, and a cup of bad residence hotel coffee, and drove his rental down to Hoover. It was almost five in the morning, but by the time he arrived, most of his functions were functioning, his hands weren’t shaking, and the surrealism of the dream world had helpfully erased itself.

The building operated at about ten percent hum in the off hours, and halls, usually so bustling, were ghost tunnels. Security was sparse, and each individual noise seemed to carry an echo and its reecho with it. Perhaps in the op center things were jumping. Everywhere else, there was too much room, not enough people. He elevatored to the sixth floor and turned in to the deserted hall that led to the task force office, entered, and saw they were all in, except for Gold. Someone had put a pot of coffee on, and Swagger took a cupful, his second of the day.

Finally, Nick looked up.

“Should we wait for Mr. Gold?” asked Neill.

“No, he’s here. Going over his notes.”

“This is his party?”

“The whole way.”

“Is it his clarification?” groggy, gorgeous Chandler, in jeans and sweatshirt, Glock on hip, had to know.

“He’ll explain. Mr. Gold!” he called.

The Israeli entered. Unusually for him, he was not in his daily wear, the jeweler’s black suit and tie. His shoes weren’t even black. The shirt was wide open, there was no jacket, and the slacks were radically gray. He was wearing burgundy loafers.

“Good morning,” he said. “Sorry to drag you all here, but if you agree with me, I think we have to get going on this.”

He sat.

“What has happened is that two unrelated pieces of information—one from Mr. Neill, one from Sergeant Swagger—have suddenly become related. Apart, they are nothing; together, perhaps something. I believe it at least demands a serious effort.”

“Please proceed,” said Neill. “I love it when I’m a genius.”

“You had said that the kind of aerial or drone reconnaissance that led us to Juba in Syria, keyed to the attributes that would identify a long-range shooting venue, were useless in the United States without some kind of limiting or defining function. Not even knowing the region, we were looking for a rowboat in an ocean.”

“True,” said Neill.

“And Sergeant Swagger had said that Juba almost certainly will shoot at living targets, first to acclimate himself to the spontaneous motion of life at that distance through that magnification system, and second—and equally important—to test the killing power of his rounds at that distance, in search of one that causes potentially more damage.”

“Yep,” said Bob.