“Not much of a view, huh?”

They sat on the concrete steps facing the muddy Mississippi. The water was choppy and dark, almost the color of chocolate milk.

Sam looked away from the water. “Did you bring it?”

“I brought it,” Jasper said, patting his jacket pockets.

“Can I see it?”

“You can see it,” Jasper said slowly. “But I’m not sure if I should give it to you.”

“Let me see it.”

Jasper reached into his pocket and pulled out a little laminated card. It was attached to a lanyard. He held the lanyard and let the card dangle in the wind. It was Sam’s chance, his extremely slim chance, at gaining access to that night’s FBI press conference. Jasper had been invited. They seemed to like him. But the local law enforcement weren’t so keen on Sam. The captain especially. The FBI still thought he was just some crazy guy that climbed planters in the middle of a biological terror attack.

“Looks like someone did a good job,” Sam said, admiring the counterfeit press pass. “Does the magnetic strip work?”

“What do you think?” Jasper said, still not handing it over.

Sam held his hand out, his fingers curled for it. But Jasper just pocketed the card. “I thought it over.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“No, it’s Jackson’s, and that’s what he told me.”

“You’re lying.”

“Sam, they already gave me the preview. I can give you the press conference right now, here on this step.”

Sam waited for his private press conference to begin while a small group of joggers plodded by on the jogging path behind them. It had been a cool, windy December in New Orleans. Christmas was only a week or two away.

“And you’re not going to like it. So forget about the card and the conference and—”

“Just tell me what they know.”

“I helped them trace the substance back to Tulane University.”

He looked up sharply. “When did you do that?”

“Last night,” Jasper said. “When you were . . . taking care of Clara.”

Sam compared the importance of “taking care of Clara” to nosing around at another of New Orleans’ colleges. He couldn’t disagree that Clara had been the better move. God, he’d never leave that woman’s side again if he had a choice. But still, he’d been lagging behind yet again. It was becoming clear more than ever, especially after last night, that he would have to pick one or the other. He didn’t have room in his life for two obsessions. He couldn’t work this on his own and still take care of his woman. Sam smiled ruefully. Clara was definitely his, even if she hadn’t realized yet.

“Kafi and Timir are microbiology students, Sam.”

“They’re from Somalia, though.”

“Still doesn’t make them terrorists,” Jasper said.

Sam couldn’t contain his anger. He turned to Jasper and said, “I don’t care where they’re positioned on the power totem pole. They tried poisoning a whole city block of people. That fucking makes them terrorists. Don’t give me that horse shit, Jasper.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t care if they’re students. That only makes them more dangerous. And how the fuck did they get their hands on the lab and technology to make enough hydrogen chloride?”

“It was a very weak dispersal.”

“I didn’t know Tulane was the new Fort Detrick.”

Jasper cleared his throat and continued. “So they went out there and checked out their lab. Got physical evidence, and cleaned it up. Shut down any possible pathways for non-authorized access. It’s open and shut now.”

Sam still couldn’t believe it was that simple.

“And, I think that’s it, Sam. I’ll be heading back to D.C. pretty soon.”

Sam was looking at his shoes. A gust of wind blew at his laces, but his feet were steady, firmly planted on the bank of the Mississippi.

“You should come back with me,” Jasper said. “You’ve been out here a long time.”

“Maybe I’ll stay and get fired.”

“If that’s what you want.” Jasper patted him on the shoulder. “That’s not what I want, though. No one wants that.”

“I think I do,” Sam said. There were others who agreed with him. Clara. Molly. “I’m burned out with D.C. And I like the pace here.”

“The Big Easy, huh?”

“I like the people.”

“You like your girl.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, turning to him. “I really do.”

“How is she?”

“She’s doing great. She did a poetry reading last night.”

“Wow . . .” Jasper smiled and then chuckled. “You went to a poetry reading?”

“With her, yeah. I don’t understand it, but I like it. She did a great job.”

“You know, you can try the long-distance thing.”

“Yeah, but, she’s got this guy, her ex. Molly’s father. He’s a real problem.”

“You don’t trust her?”

“It’s not that kind of problem. He just got out of jail, and he’s been . . . bothering her.”

“Sam, I might not agree with you quitting DARC Ops. But I do think you need to take some steps back from this investigation, and maybe work on your personal life. Work on her. Do what you have to do, but, please, think about coming back when you’re done. Okay?”

It was a reasonable request. Since coming down, Jasper had been firm, but fair, with his assessments of Sam’s latest predicaments. He was someone Sam could trust.

“You haven’t seen the last of me,” Sam said, thinking already about his night ahead. Should he already consider himself a free man from DARC, a freelancer, with a free night to spend with his girl? Should he call Jackson already and tell him about it? Or should he stay at his hotel and focus on how he should deal with the Kurt situation? He still had all those clips of news footage. He could maybe comb through them in search of Kurt, use it as evidence for Clara’s restraining order.

Sam took another look at his good friend. He would feel a little sad, saying goodbye. DARC had been good to him, almost like a family.

“Hey,” Sam said. “One last thing before you go. A beignet.”

“A what?”

Sam pointed up over the road behind them to another of New Orleans’ famous landmarks, the Cafe Du Monde. “Let’s do something touristy for a change.”

* * *

It was like fishing. But less scenic. And a lot less relaxing.

Sam sat in his hotel room, hunch-backed in front of two linked monitors, watching clip after clip of anything pertaining to the event—watching carefully and closely for Kurt’s clothing, hair style, manner of walk. He had been straining his eyes for almost an hour, during which time he’d already had gone through the clips of Clara. Those were painful to revisit. When he’d first discovered her, his reaction with Bren had been a mix of excitement and horror. Now he just felt a muted sense of sadness.

She looked so broken and pitiful. He fucking hated it.

Sam clenched his teeth and fast-forwarded those parts, all while making a promise to himself that he would never let anything happen to her ever again. It could be his new job. It could be her future, protected. Really protected.

It made him stare at the screens harder, his focus sharpened, even his peripheral vision opening up and taking in wider and wider swaths of visual coverage. But still no fucking sign of Kurt.

Of course, there was that possibility that he’d never been there. At the time of the event, Sam’s adrenaline had been off the charts. His breathing fucked up. He might have even been affected by remnants of the attack. Kurt could have just been a product of that, some maddening mirage.

When Sam’s phone vibrated against the table, the intrusion into such hard concentration made him jump in his seat. He was glad no one was around to see it, or to hear the little squeal he made.

“Dave?”

“Hi, Sam. Got some news for you.”

It could either be about Kurt or the bio attack. Although he’d sworn off researching the bio angle to Jasper, he still wasn’t sure what info he’d like to hear.

Dave spoke again. “It turns out that Kurt is most definitely in New Orleans.”

“Shit . . .”

“But don’t worry. Clara’s safe. He’s in jail.” Dave laughed quietly on the other end. Sam thought he sounded drunk. “He got swept up in a sting operation. A crack house in the lower Ninth Ward.”

“He smokes crack?”

“You wouldn’t believe some of these guys,” Dave said. “They go in there and get straight for five years and then as soon as they get out, it’s the first thing they want.”

Sam was glad that Kurt was off the streets and no longer a threat to Clara or Molly, but there was something about this latest news that made him hurt inside. It was such a terrible tragedy all around.

“I just figured you’d want to know.”

“Of course,” he said. “Thank you. I’m just . . . I guess I’m stunned.”

“Why? The guy’s a loser.”

“True.”

“Sam, he beats women. I don’t want to get into it, but—”

“I know, I know. I just don’t want to celebrate something like this.”

“I do,” Dave said. “I’m celebrating right now.” There was the cracking sound of an opened can of beer. And then some hard swallows coming through on the call.

“You okay, Dave?”

“I don’t mean to be crass,” he said. “I’m just glad to be done on your little research project.”

Sam kept staring at the screen of his own research project, all the faces and shapes blurred into an ugly impressionist painting. One of Monet’s worst works. Biological Attack in the Courtyard.

Dave kept going. “Unless you’ve got some more bright ideas. Maybe you want me to get Vivian to be the guy’s lawyer? A legal assistant posing as public defender. She’d probably do a better job than most of those hacks. But you’re not looking for that; you just want to keep tabs on the guy.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, just letting him go on.

“Actually, you should get her to do that, make Vivian sabotage the case and keep him in jail for the rest of his life. You know how hard this state is on drug crimes? This ain’t Washington.”

“Dave?”

“Go ahead.”

“Where are you?”

“In my car.”

“Okay. Do me favor?”

“What?”

“Don’t drive anywhere.”

* * *

Fucking Dave was really going off the rails. How long had it been going on for? Had Sam walked into the final scenes of his friend’s tragedy? Or had he been instrumental in some way? He found it hard not to feel a little guilty. Even if the timing was just completely coincidental. Sam had bothered him about the Kurt research, which put him back in contact with Vivian. Though it seemed that type of contact, physical or not, was inevitable. Still, Sam played some small role in that. Then there was the drinking. It seemed like everything for Dave after those catch-up beers—his retainer fee—had been going downhill.

Sam ran his fingertips through his hair, scratching against his skull. There was so much to do. So much to worry about. From mass terror attacks to the private tragedies of his closest friends. He would have to set something up for Dave. He would have to talk to him about a program. Something to get him out of his Goddamned car and maybe back with his family.

Sam started watching through the recordings again, his gaze following them only halfheartedly now as his mind went to Dave. But then he saw it.

What was that?

What was that man holding?

There was a short, thin man, wearing a hooded jacket with the hood pulled down low over his head. All Sam could see was a beard, no mustache. Brown skin. At first he looked like any other man caught up in the attack. But he’d had a small painter’s mask over his mouth, a flat cloth kind like the ones so popular in Asian countries.

And even that would have been fine. He’d seen his fair share of people with masks in major cities. In D.C., New York. It was the way he was moving that got Sam’s attention. His head movements too, where he would look and pay attention to. How he was not panicking or scrambling away, but walking in organized lines. A pre-planned route, that mostly had nothing to do with the flow of traffic away from the attack. Nothing to do with any perceivable sense of self-preservation.

And what the fuck was he holding?

At first it looked like a typical briefcase. But upon closer inspection, it seemed to have a small hose running out of it, with a type of nozzle.

And then he saw another man, similar build, similar skin color and dress. Similar fucking air-quality-monitor briefcase.

Sam paused the video, his fingers shaking so badly at the track pad he had trouble aiming the cursor. He reached for his phone and pulled up two photos he had saved, close-ups of the two suspects.

He compared them to the two he’d been watching on the screen.

They didn’t fucking match.

These were two completely different men, with what looked like air-quality readers, walking in systematic lines, almost as if they were scientists conducting an experiment. These were his masterminds. The researchers—training and watching over the rats.