“Not now,” she replied.

They went inside the building. There was a crime scene tech waiting near the broken metal detector. He was quiet, did his job quickly and efficiently, taking swabs of both Hart’s and Fletcher’s hands, bagging their guns. Sam realized her hands were covered in blood. The crime scene tech handed her a wipe. It stung obscenely against her abraded flesh.

They were done in five minutes, and Fletcher’s immediate boss, Captain Armstrong, was waiting for them. If he’d seen Sam’s exchange with Roosevelt, he chose not to mention it. He leaned in, spoke quietly in Fletcher’s ear, close enough that she saw him twitch when Armstrong’s mustache tickled the lobe. “Go home, Fletcher. Let me deal with Roosevelt. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Armstrong shot her a strange glance, and she could have sworn he smiled, albeit briefly. So he had heard their tiff, damn it. She was beginning to feel foolish for losing her temper, then decided to hell with it. Part of working with the FBI, as Baldwin had explained, was putting up with the occasional skirmish with the locals. Of course, she hadn’t expected to get into one so soon, but Roosevelt had it coming.

Sam spared a glance toward the front doors, saw a bevy of microphones and camera flashes, the black stalks of camera tripods being hurried into place. Roosevelt was going to do a presser right here at the scene, and distract the media long enough to get his men away.

“Good of him,” Fletcher said to Hart. “He could have thrown us to the wolves.” And to Sam, “Now are you ready to tell me what all that was about? You seemed a bit heated talking to the big dog.”

“You don’t want to know. Suffice it to say, I just jacked your case.”

“You did what?”

She grabbed his arm as the flashbulbs started behind them.

“Come on. We need to get out of here.”

“I’m off the case. I’m supposed to go home and sit on my hands like a good little boy.”

She chewed on her lip for a moment. “Well, you can do that. Or you can come with me and solve this case.”

Fletcher shrugged back into his jacket. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Samantha, but I’m with you.” He turned to Hart. “Go home. Watch your back. I’ll stay in touch.”

“Hey, dude, we’re off the case. What do you think you’re doing?”

Fletcher glanced at Sam, gave his old partner a shrug and a grin. “We’ll see.”

Sam called Quantico as she walked out the back door of Bromley’s building, avoiding the press corps and that puffed-up rooster Roosevelt. Fletcher followed Sam. He looked troubled, not that she blamed him. What she’d just done was impulsive, but necessary. She couldn’t let someone like Roosevelt get in and muck things up. He used to be a cop, but now he was a politician, and everything was going to turn his way if they weren’t careful. And this way, she could protect Fletcher, too.

Charlaine answered on the first ring. “You’ve got my kid Daniels working hard, don’t you?”

“I do. Listen, I may have just mouthed off to D.C.’s chief of police that I’m requesting jurisdiction of this case.”

Charlaine started to laugh, and Sam told her the whole story with relief, fighting down her own laughter as Charlaine hooted. “You don’t waste any time, do you, Dr. Owens?”

“Apparently not. I felt it was justified. We were just shot at, and the shooter was an employee of the State Department. And the chief was being a jerk. He’s a politician. He’ll screw everything up.”

Charlaine laughed again. “Then you did exactly the right thing. Set up at the Hoover Building. I’ll brief them on what’s happening. You’ll have to go in and give them the rundown. Do you want to run this yourself, or do you need more help?”

“I think we need all the help we can get right now, Charlaine. Night has fallen, and we’re chasing our tails. We’ve got a manhunt ongoing, a spree killer shooting his way through D.C., five dead and two suspects missing, plus a load of possibly hot vaccines in the wind. We have a dead State Department official in the street outside. This is bigger than even my capable hands, and we need to work with the D.C. police, too. And someone needs to get Regina Girabaldi in a private room.”

Charlaine whistled. “She’s involved?”

“To her perfectly waxed eyebrows. I’m not sure exactly how, but she pulled us in this morning and asked us to cover the whole thing up. It’s beyond that now.”

“I hear you. You’re smart, Sam. We do our best work when we work together. I’ll handle things from this end. And I’ll let Baldwin know. He just checked in from the plane. I think he’s headed your way when he lands in a couple of hours, so you can coordinate together.”

“Roger that. I have to go home. There’s a whole separate branch of this case brewing in my living room. You saw the assassination attempt of James Denon this morning, right?”

“I did.”

“That was my guy who shot the would-be assassin. He’s got Denon holed up at our place while he tracks down who was involved. Turns out, I think we’re working the same case. There’s a common player between the two. Our girl.”

“Seriously? Sam, be careful. Go take a breath, let me get things moving.”

“I will. And, Charlaine? Thanks.”

“You got it, kid. Nice to have you on board.”

* * *

Fletcher listened to Sam’s call and decided he needed to make one of his own. It might get him fired; he knew continuing to work the case was dangerous to his career, but he had a feeling in the long run, it would be better to keep pushing than step back and wait like he’d been told. Armstrong would agree, he was sure of it.

When Armstrong had replaced Fred Roosevelt as captain, Fletcher had been worried. Armstrong was tough, no-nonsense, a careerist who liked to see his numbers move in the right direction. He’d spotted Fletcher as a troublemaker from the beginning, and Fletcher naturally assumed the two would clash constantly.

His concerns had been unwarranted. Roosevelt had been a hard-ass, kept himself separate from the troops. Armstrong, on the other hand, was one of them, had risen up through the ranks. He and Lonnie worked out together. He’d given Fletcher the chance to work on the Joint Terrorism Task Force and promoted him to lieutenant, allowed him the autonomy to continue investigating in the field as he wished, instead of letting him ride out his twenty at a desk.

Fletcher knew he had an ally in Armstrong, but he was still reluctant to tell him all of his suppositions at this point. If he was wrong, it would cost him his job, and no amount of bonhomie from his boss would save it.

It was time to talk to Girabaldi, but Fletcher wanted to do it in his house, not in hers. Rattle her up, make her uncomfortable, find out why Kruger had tried to kill him, and who had been riding in the car with the would-be assassin.

But that wasn’t meant to be. He had to watch his back, make sure he didn’t get fired. As they drove back to Sam’s house, Fletcher called the number he’d been given earlier. The phone was answered almost immediately by Ashleigh Cavort.

“Is it true? Did Jason shoot at you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God. The shooting was on the news, but I didn’t believe it. His car was gone, his desk was empty. They said it was a State Department official. We knew it had to be him. How could he do this?”

“Ms. Cavort, I know this is a difficult time. But I need everything you have on Jason Kruger, and I need it now. And put Girabaldi on the line. She and I need to have a chat.”

Cavort gulped back her tears, adopted a more professional tone. “The undersecretary has been placed under protection, Lieutenant. With the events unfolding as they are, we can’t help you. We have to protect her—she’s our number-one priority. Even I can’t get in touch with the undersecretary right now.”

“Then screw Girabaldi, you have to get me Kruger’s file. Ashleigh, please. We’re under attack, and we don’t know why, or from whom. You gotta let me see who this guy really was. I don’t have time to go through the proper channels.”