“I thought you said you weren’t going to film me,” Ruby said, looking warily at the phone as Wheldon locked the door.

“Don’t worry. I’m not. Cross my heart,” Eric said. “You’re going to sit here by the door. I’m going to sit in the chair in front of the bed with the camera taping just me the whole time. I promise.”

Wheldon thumbed at an almost-closed door on the room’s left-hand wall.

“Now if I could direct your attention, Mrs. Smith. Like I texted you, there’s a man in the sitting room who’s also going to be part of this conversation. We’ll call him Mr. Smith. Say hello, Mr. Smith.”

“Hello,” said a man’s voice through the crack in the door.

“This is weird,” Ruby said, wincing at the almost-closed door. “Honestly, I don’t know, Eric. I don’t even know if I should do this.”

“I know. You’re right,” Wheldon said. “All of this is an incredibly silly way to do anything. Unfortunately, these are some desperate times we’re living in, aren’t they? And if we want to get back to a semblance of sanity and normalcy and justice for our families and kids, it’s up to regular people like us to do the job.

“Because the FBI apparently isn’t in the fidelity and bravery and integrity business anymore, is it? Or even the mainstream media when you consider how they’re covering everything up. I think it’s important that more and more people know that. But with that said, I can’t and won’t force you. You’re free to go whenever you want.”

Ruby sighed.

“You’ll disguise my voice like you said?” Ruby said.

“Of course,” Wheldon said. “Your own mother won’t know it’s you once I get done editing.”

“Okay, fine,” Ruby said, finally sitting in the chair by the door.

Wheldon took his seat.

“We’re going to keep it casual and just talk like we’ve been doing,” Wheldon said. “Nothing fancy. I’ll ask you guys questions and you answer them to the best of your ability, okay? I just need to set up my laptop, and we’ll be ready. Sound good? We’re all on the same page?”

“Okay,” said Ruby.

“Okay,” said Mr. Smith through the crack in the door.

49

Outside in the fusion center’s truck yard, the MH-6 helicopter’s red running lights pulsed like a campfire ember against the dark.

In the high nails-on-chalkboard turbo whine, Ruiz adjusted his butt on the chopper’s ice-cold exterior running board bench and gave a last tug on his safety harness. Then he gave a knock on the curved glass canopy, and he and his men were up, up and away with their feet dangling off the helicopter’s skids into the pitch-black freezing open January air.

Ruiz felt his stomach get left behind as the aircraft went out from under the turnpike overpass. Still gaining altitude, they skimmed smoothly up over a traffic-filled road, over a junkyard, then over a river.

On the river’s other side was a lightless golf course, and as they turned to the left north over Hoboken, the magnificent sparkling sprawl of Manhattan’s night skyline came into view.