“How sure are you? Which vigilantes? Can you describe them? How do I know you aren’t some dumb schmuck who wants his fifteen minutes of fame? You do have a point, they’re world-famous, and they do have unforgettable faces. What’s your name? Yeah, right. Before I take my crew and go chasing over to the Crystal City Underground, I’m going to need a little more information. Just so you know, I don’t pay for information. Who else did you call? If you say no one, then it becomes an exclusive and maybe we can talk about some kind of monetary remuneration. What do you mean you called the FBI first? What am I, chopped liver? I don’t much care if you like my attitude or not, and I don’t care if you think you’re doing your civic duty or not. I think you’re calling because the females in your personal life have stood up to you, and the vigilantes somehow, some way, have made your life miserable. Good-bye, whoever you are.”

Hart broke the connection, snapped off her recorder, then dialed the offices of the FBI, where she identified herself and asked to speak to the director. She was surprised that she was put through immediately. She got right to the point, and then asked, “Can you give me a comment, Mr. Director?”

Bert clucked his tongue, but he was smiling from ear to ear. “Miss Hart, you know we don’t make comments to the media. I will say, however, that we field thousands of calls a day, most of them anonymous. Have a nice day, Miss Hart.”

On Big Pine Mountain, Charles Martin did his best to wade through the tsunami of intel that was coming in via e-mails, faxes, and cell phone calls. This was what he loved, the second-by-second coordination of all the minutiae, pickups, drop-offs, drop zones, and transportation by either air, land, or sea, and sometimes even by bicycle or horseback. He allowed himself a visual of Harry Wong on horseback, which made him laugh out loud.

His fingers were like magic, his eyes sharper than an eagle’s as he scanned the faxes that kept shooting out in all directions. He’d always excelled at multitasking, and that trait was working overtime. His words were bullet-fast when he spoke to Avery Snowden. “Everything is in place. Do it! Good work, Avery.”

Charles pressed a number, and Annie picked up. “Go!”

The activity or lack thereof in Apartment 809 in the Watergate accelerated to beehive speed.

Jack and Harry were the first to leave. “We can get there faster on the Ducati, Jack. It’s up to you if you want to take your car. Those people must really be stupid. They split, and now they’re going running at the Tidal Basin. How dumb is that?”