“Rooney, listen to yourself,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “You tortured a goddamn Nazi into coughing up some half-baked lie. I’m not sending in the cavalry for that. Not when it contradicts my own intelligence. And not when my resources are already stretched so goddamn thin.”

I can’t believe what he’s saying. I look over at Angus. At least six agents are surrounding him, restraining him, frisking him, slicing off the duct tape around his wrists and snapping on cuffs. Another six are standing sentry beside Morgan.

“But you’d bring a small army,” I ask, “to make one little arrest?”

Morgan replies, “Two arrests.”

I’m flooded with the warmth of relief. “Thank God!” I exclaim.

When I texted the FBI about my one-on-one with Angus tonight, I also told them everything I’d learned about David Needham. I’m ecstatic Morgan actually paid attention.

“Has that rich bastard said anything yet?” I ask. “Can I get a shot at him? I’m going to guess he lawyered up pretty fast, but—”

“No, you don’t get it,” he says. “Caleb James Rooney … you’re under arrest. For obstructing a federal criminal investigation.”

Wait. Hang on. Did he just say …

The six other agents on either side of him start to approach me.

Instinctively, I step backward. “I … I’m what?!”

He says simply, “You have the right to remain silent.”

“Is this a joke? I haven’t obstructed your investigation. Shit, I did it all for you!”

But he continues intoning the Miranda as solemnly as a monk.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

His agents keep advancing on me. I see one of them take out a pair of handcuffs, its silver metal glinting in the glare of the spotlight.

“Sir, please turn around,” the agent says, “and put your hands behind your back.”

No … no! This is bullshit of the highest order. Mardi Gras starts tomorrow. I’m closer than ever to bringing Needham to his knees and his sick conspiracy to a close. Like hell am I going to let these suits stop me now.

Which gives me an idea.

Maybe I can bring them with me.

“Sir,” the agent repeats, louder, “I said turn around and place your hands—”

“All right, fine,” I say. And slowly, I obey.

As I do, I look back at my car. I’m only a few feet from it. The door is ajar. The dome light is on. Since the keys are still dangling from the ignition, a chime is sounding.

I lunge for the vehicle. I dive inside, slam the door behind me, and lock it, all in a single swift move.

Outside I hear muffled, chaotic yelling—drowned out when I start the engine.

Immediately I shift into Drive and stomp on the pedal. The agents scurry out of the way like a flock of startled birds as gravel spews beneath my tires.