“I think I have something.”

Locke looked up from his computer. “What is it?”

Braden let his eyes scan the transcripts he’d been reviewing. “Last March. The cell phone conversation beginning at 0600.”

He waited while Locke found it, his mind drifting to Nora. It had been two weeks since their trip to Washington and he hadn’t heard a word from her. They’d been picked up by Locke’s plane on Orcas Island and had flown back to L.A. in relative silence. She hadn’t been cold, but he’d sensed her trying to put distance between them. He didn’t love it, but he didn’t blame her. Their goals were diametrically opposed now. The space was necessary for both of them.

The logic of it didn’t change the other part of him, the part that missed her every day. That dreamt of her at night. That ached to pull her into his arms, smell her hair, touch her skin and occupy her body. Remind them both that she was his.

Whatever happened now, she was his.

He had no idea if she’d gone to Alvarez, if she still planned to go to him. But Locke had seemed unconcerned, insisting his tracks were well covered, and the two men had turned their attention to the investigation of Shields and the Kalashnik operation at the Bureau. Braden’s gut still told him something was wrong, and the thought of Shields working next to Nora, possibly putting her in danger, was enough to make him want to punch something every minute of every day.

He’d thrown himself into the investigation instead, crashing at Locke’s, afraid to go back to the South Bay where Nora’s presence would be everywhere. When being away from her got to be too much, he took advantage of the on-site shooting range on the ground floor of Locke’s house, swam in the surf below until his muscles ached.

It didn’t keep him from missing her. From wanting her.

But it was all he could do.

“I see it,” Locke said.

Braden looked up. “What do you make of it?”

“Hold on.” Locke tapped the keyboard.

They were on the third floor of the house in La Jolla in the space Locke called his War Room. It was outfitted with enough hi-tech equipment to compete with the Bureau’s Central Command, and Braden had lost track of the hours he’d spent scrolling through Mike Shield’s phone conversations, emails, and texts.

It was mind-numbingly boring except for the few times they got a lead on something suspicious — that and the occasional mention of Nora kept him awake.

He hated hearing the bastard talk about Nora. Hated hearing her referred to as “a piece” to friends on Mike’s phone. He thought he’d become immune to hearing that kind of bullshit. Four years in the military and five more in the Bureau would do that to a guy.

But he was definitely not immune.

He had to scroll past those parts quickly, try to disconnect the words on the page from the woman he knew. The woman he loved.

“They’re talking about a meeting,” Locke said, interrupting Braden’s thoughts.

“That’s what I thought,” Braden said. “But we still don’t know who the contact is.”

The conversation had taken place on the phone, but Shields had never referred to the other person by name, and Locke hadn’t been able to trace the other number to anything but a throwaway phone card.

Braden looked across the desk at him. “Sounds high-level though, right?”

Locke rubbed his chin. “It’s hard to be sure without more context, but it could be. Does the part about the application ring any bells?”

Braden reread it just to be sure.

SHIELDS: The applications are already being pushed upline.

UNKNOWN: What about our friend in charge?

SHIELDS: He’s got more eyes on his back than any of us, especially now.

UNKNOWN: More eyes and more power.

SHIELDS: He does more good to you undiscovered.

UNKNOWN: Perhaps [unintelligable]… How many are there?

SHIELDS: Twenty-eight.

UKNOWN: I will need those names and locations.

SHIELDS: I’m not transferring anything online. It’s even more risky than bringing you copies. Cyber is all over everybody’s shit these days.

UNKNOWN: Bayside Corridor on the 20th. Six p.m.

SHIELDS: I’ll be there.

“It sounds like they’re talking about warrant applications,” Braden said. “A lot of them.”

“He’s asking Shields to intervene,” Locke said. “Or more specifically, to get someone more powerful to intervene.”

“Exactly. Someone higher on the food chain than Shields, which means he’s not working alone.”

The discovery brought Braden no satisfaction. It was validation of everything he’d believed — everything that had made him leave the Bureau in the first place. Not only was Shields a traitor, he was working with at least one other person inside the Bureau.

“Whoever it is must be high-profile,” Locke said. “Sounds like Shields is trying to keep him or her out of it.”

He’s got more eyes on his back than any of us, especially now.

More eyes and more power.

Could Shields have been referring to Alvarez and the SAC’s recent promotion? Braden didn’t want to believe it, but anything was possible. Then again the parameters were so vague they could apply to almost anyone at the Bureau: a new hire, someone newly promoted like Alvarez, an veteran agent on probation for a previous lapse in judgement or protocol. The possibilities were endless.

Braden leaned forward, skimmed the words again, tried to focus on the parts they had a chance at deciphering. “Sounds like he’s going to make a drop on the 20th.”

“Agreed,” Locke said. “And he’s going to do it on the busiest day of Comic Con.”

Braden looked at him. “Comic Con?”

Locke typed for a few seconds, then turned his computer screen so Braden could see it. A long, wide corridor was pictured there, surrounded by glass and topped with a barrel ceiling.

“Bayside Corridor is one of the halls in the San Diego Convention Center,” Locke said. “And Comic Con starts the 19th.”