“Already there,” the man in the Nixon mask said, pulling out a metal box from under the seat. From inside, he brought out plastic bags and threw one to the bald man in the back.

Taking off the Nixon mask, he fumbled with the bag in his hand. For a moment, William saw a flash of a vial and some thin plastic tubes.

“Wait,” William began. “What are you—?”

The man spun around with such speed that he had the needle in Lily’s leg before William could block him. She gasped in pain.

William leapt forward, grabbing the man’s arm. He ripped the syringe from the man’s hand just as he felt a needle slide into his own arm, followed by a swirl of hot pain.

William swung back, hitting the bald man who had come up from behind. The world immediately began to fade.

“What…” William’s voice slurred.

“What the hell are you doing?” he heard Quincy yell.

“Don’t … hurt…” William fell to the floor.

“Not to worry, Mr. Chance.” The man who once wore with the Nixon mask leaned down, patting his cheek roughly. “Your grandmother gave specific orders.”

FIVE

The rain splintered the view outside the window of the town car, blurring the beginnings and endings of the warehouses. Developers had salivated over the district along the Potomac for years, dreaming of demolishing the old buildings and slamming shiny condos in their place. Yet the industrial stain along the river remained, the owners clutching to their decades-old property deeds that promised sales that would one day pay for beach houses along the Gulf Coast. In cash.

I’ll give them this, Kate thought: It’s a hell of a place to hide.

She tapped her fingers on the armrest, her other hand holding her iPhone, frantically scrolling through her news feed.

“BREAKING: Jeep belonging to William Chance found near home in Little Rock, tires shot out.”

“DEVELOPING: Maintenance crew outside private landing strip at Clinton National Airport report hearing gunfire.”

“TIMELINE: What we know at this hour about the discovery of William Chance—“

Kate leaned forward. “Is it much farther?”

“We’re actually here, Senator,” the driver responded.

She’d had her misgivings even entering the Lincoln town car when it arrived at her townhouse as scheduled. But it had the standard government plates, and the driver flashed a proper security badge. When she questioned the location, knowing that no government agencies were housed that far from DC’s central corridor, the driver had referred to the paperwork delivered to her by a process server containing the official seal with a raised emblem that included the address. It had been signed by the agency’s director, Mark Wolve.