“Of course. I only have one question,” Stephen says. “How is it possible that with all of our resources we have no bloody idea where Cyrus Mattingly plans to go with that truck?”

One question with several answers I’m not about to give.

“The purpose of the report was to address that question,” Cole says.

Philip Strahan guffaws and slaps the side of his desk.

The report is over two hundred pages long. For the most part, it’s a raft of details about the planned operation, sent two hours ago and for one reason—to give the illusion of transparency while distracting them with irrelevancies. He’d hoped they’d brush it aside with a groan and just be content to watch the action unfold. They’d already objected when Cole promised them after-action reports and demanded instead to be cut in on the live feeds. He’d conceded, figuring it would buy him some operational latitude. But no such luck, apparently.

“The purpose of the report,” Philip manages once he catches his breath, “was to drown us in bullshit while you maintained a distinctly go it alone attitude on this, my friend.”

“Not that I disagree,” Stephen cuts in, “but my question stands . . .”

“The answer’s in the report,” Cole says, “and I worry about insulting your intelligence by repeating it now.”

“Indulge me,” Stephen says.

“Every internet map search he’s done since we began surveillance has been for an official run he’s made on behalf of a licensed cargo company. No searches that can’t be explained by legitimate business. In other words, he hasn’t tried to figure out where he’s going tonight, because he already knows, and he’s known for some time. He’s probably been there before, a lot. It’s the only logical explanation. All that said, the fact that we may be on the verge of stopping a serial predator potentially responsible for scores of unexplained disappearances in the state of Texas is a cause for celebration, my friends.”

Julia Crispin breaks the silence, sounding more thoughtful than he expected. “And those other runs, those were in trucks he doesn’t own, right? Then all of a sudden he bought a box truck for himself using cash, and that’s what you cite here as the escalation that justified greater surveillance.”

That and the letter, but I’m not telling you about it until I’m convinced you’re not trying to sabotage this operation with bureaucratic nonsense. And maybe not even then.

“Constant surveillance,” Cole adds. “For four solid months, yes.”

“You included his ‘regular’ mail in that surveillance?” Philip asks, sounding like the term makes him nostalgic for a bygone era.

Cole feels a prickle under his skin; thankfully it’s on the back of his neck. Although he doubts it would be visible to the callers even if it were on his cheeks.

“We did. He’s got a combined internet and cable package that saves him a bit every month, if anyone’s curious.”

Don’t steer them off the topic of his paper mail, he thinks. That will look too obvious. Let them get bored with it and move on.

“All right, these truckers, they talk on the CB all the time, right?” Philip asks. “I mean, is that still a thing? Did you guys monitor all that? Maybe when he was out on those official runs he was using that as cover to coordinate with accomplices in code or something.”

“We did and found nothing of note,” Cole lies.

“Well, color me impressed,” Philip says, “if it’s true.”

“It is,” Cole lies again.

Sounding as if he thinks he’s being ignored, Stephen says, “And meanwhile this guy’s outfitting his own truck into a traveling horror show, but he’s not talking to anyone about where he plans to take it or the person he’s presumably going to put in it.”

“That’s correct, Stephen. In my experience, serial killers can be very tight-lipped.”

The door to the conference room opens so quietly Cole doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t notice a freshly showered Noah until he sees him scooting along the wall, taking care to stay out of the camera’s view as he makes his way to the far corner out of the room. The room’s designed to let people enter and exit undetected during a videoconference, so there’s no reacting to Noah without making this already tense call even worse.

Cole’s not sure what angers him more: Noah’s arrival, or the casual manner in which he’s arrived, all wide-eyed curiosity as he studies the faces on-screen. Like he was invited to attend and will later be asked to share his insights on the participants.

“If he even is a serial killer,” Stephen says.

Cole summons enough appropriate self-righteousness before he says, “You’ve seen what’s in the cargo bay of that truck. If that’s your idea of a fun road trip, remind me never to travel with you. And we didn’t pick him at random. He’s one of a select group of people who buys the chemicals you need to completely dispose of a human body, more than once a year. And he lacks any legitimate professional reason to do so.”

Stephen’s messing with him. He’s heard the qualifications that land an individual on the Hunt List countless times, and he also knows that the more frequent the purchases, the higher up on the list they appear. The top fifteen names Bailey Prescott’s extensive hacks have uncovered now occupy what they’ve come to call the Red Tier; Mattingly’s currently number six.

To say nothing of Mattingly’s personal history. No living family members, no close friends. A loner from a home so broken he’d landed at a boy’s ranch outside Lubbock when he was a teenager, a ranch that later closed amid widespread accusations of abuse. He’s also a fan of such violent pornography Cole directed his tech team to investigate whether some of the more upsetting images they found on Mattingly’s hard drive had been made with consenting models. So far, they’d only matched three of seven images to a known porn company.

Stephen chews his bottom lip, like he’s debating whether to defend himself. When he takes in the silence from his other business partners, he seems to decide against it.

“Why aren’t you giving her the first dose remotely? You say in here the blood trackers are equipped to re-dose her remotely if her abduction period takes her outside the trigger window. Give her the first dose remotely. What’s she doing out there carrying around one of these pills in her back pocket?”

“It’s tradition.”

“Tradition?” Stephen snaps. “You’ve done this twice.”

Julia waggles one hand and says, “Once when we were actually involved and not just watching. The first time was . . . highly improvised.”

“Hence, my question,” Stephen continues. “What’s the tradition here? She’s literally states away from you. What happens if she loses the pill or someone tries to take it from her?”

“Luke Prescott is trained to respond to a dozen worst-case scenarios. And no one knows she has the pill, so how is that a risk?”

“But what’s the point?” Stephen whines. “I mean, why give up control over the first dose?”

“It’s part of my understanding with her.”

“I see. So not a contract, but an understanding,” Stephen says.