Not much to say today. I'm just enjoying the process and hearing what you guys have to say. Read on, dear friends! Read on!

"Well, would you look at what the cat dragged in?" boomed Master Sergeant Trent when he answered the door to The Jefferson Group headquarters.


"We got stuck in traffic," Cal said by way of greeting. "I could use a shower and a beer, and not necessarily in that order."


"The beer, I can help you with. The shower you have to take care of for yourself."


"Is everyone here?" Cal asked.


"Everyone's here, who's still in the town."


"Tell them I'll be down in five minutes. Oh, and Top?"


"Yeah."


"Do me a favor and don't tell me how our boy, Snake Eyes, looks like he just woke up from a 24 hour nap."


Top chuckled and raised his hand in the air as if taking an oath, "I do solemnly swear".




The paired down headquarters group was waiting in the war room when Cal walked inside. He felt refreshed now that he’d scraped off a few layers of road dust. He needed to call Diane at some point, but that could wait. 


"Did you start without me?" Call asked, gratefully snagging the beer offered by Top.


"Still no details on the weapon you found," Neil said, for once not clacking away on his computer. Instead he was sipping a chilled martini with three massive olives skewered inside.


“Anymore on the think tank? What's it called again?"


"The America Institute," Daniel answered. "Looks like one of a thousand of it's kind. They do consulting, write policy paper, and do a lot of thinking, of course. They've got some big names on their register."


"And one very dead ex-employee," Cal said sipping his beer thoughtfully. "I hope you all don't mind, but I'm going to think through this one out loud.” There were no objections. “We’ve got a guy who gets fired from his job. Disgruntled employee numero uno, aka Tommy Quinn, calls the Chicago Tribune to tell them he has some kind of evidence on a flash drive. My first question is, why not just send the files via email?"


"Maybe he thought he was being tracked," Gaucho offered.


“It’s possible,” Cal said, "Maybe you're right. Or maybe Tommy just liked to play spy."


"Or he could just be another disgruntled employee,” Daniel added.


"True," Cal said. "But why go through all the trouble? The guy drives a $100 thousand car, but his parents are going broke. Either he was one messed up guy taking advantage of his parents, or he was into something deep."


"I'm sorry to tell you this, Cal," Top said. "But I'm inclined to believe option A. And to add further lemon to your wound, don't forget we're not supposed to be operational right now."


Cal exhaled and took another drink of beer. It was true. After the near debacle in Europe and the way the presidential election concluded, Cal and the President agreed that maybe it was time for The Jefferson Group to lay low for a while. They deserved some time off, finally, even though that was what their trip to Europe should have been. But it seemed like every time Cal and his friends needed a breather, they got pulled back in.


"You know, Cal," Neil said, "Something we haven't even discussed is whether this Quinn guy really was a criminal." Cal had thought about that, but he let Neil continue. "What if the reason he really got fired was because he was stealing information? Maybe what was on that flash drive was some top secret file from The America Institute."


"Okay, let's assume that was the case," Cal said. "Why the break in and why was that guy in the pickup following us the other day?"


"Maybe they were just trying to get the information back. From what it sounds like, these guys are good. They didn't shoot back at Tom, Senior, and they let you off with a warning," Top said.


Cal shifted his jaw. He could still feel the throb from that “warning”. 


"So are you all in agreement on this?" Cal asked. He looked around the room. There were nods from Neil and Top, but Gaucho just shrugged and Daniel sat impassive.


"Okay, let's keep running with this. Tommy's a bad guy. He thinks stealing from The America Institute is a good idea, maybe he’ll even make some money off of it, or maybe he can become some kind of a celebrity. That still doesn't explain why he died 30 yards away from where I was standing and why when I went to help him, he knew who I was."


"Sometimes the simplest answer is the right answer," Daniel said.


"Explain."


"Maybe he did know you. Maybe it was just a coincidence."


"Or maybe he had heard about The Jefferson Group," Gaucho said.


"Where do you think he heard about us? It's not like we advertise on Google or in the Yellow Pages, guys," Cal said.


"It's not impossible, Cal," Daniel said. "You know nothing's really a secret. We're consultants and maybe someone at The America Institute or maybe someone in the Marine Corp told Tommy that we, and maybe you specifically, could be trusted. So he has a few drinks, to get up the liquid courage, and then he comes to find you."


"And he gets in a wreck instead? Come on, man.” It felt like they were groping in the dark. “And how about this eyes on the prize thing?" Cal asked. "I swear every time I fall asleep, I hear him saying, 'Eyes on the prize. Eyes on the prize.'"


Daniel nodded. "Again, maybe it's what we thought initially. He was dying and he said something that was familiar. It was probably something he told himself every day, one of those pump yourself up kind of things like 'Never stop' or 'Just do it'."


Cal wasn't sure, but it was hard to dispute what the others were saying. Maybe he was looking into this thing with Tommy too much. Maybe it was how it appeared, a broken guy looking for recognition. But Cal still couldn't shake the feeling that it was the wrong conclusion. There'd been something in the way that Tommy had spoken to him, so clear. So Cal only half conceded in his mind.


"All right, we'll take this slow. Neil, you keep digging on the weapon and the think tank. The rest of us will get started on finding this flash drive, if it even exists."


"Where do you want to start?" Top asked.


Cal passed his hand over his stubbly chin, “How do you start looking for needle in a haystack.”


“One blade at a time?”


“Exactly.”

The den was quiet, save the occasional crack and fizzle from the low-burning fire. The lights were dim, and Senator Fowler inhaled the cedar scent coming out of the massive fireplace. He and his father had built it together, stone by stone, pulled from a nearby river and hauled the half mile to the field that had become their home. His father had never shown his love outwardly, but he'd shown it in practical ways, by spending time with the young Warren, showing him how to use his hands to build, to drive a stick shift, how to rebuild an engine, all practical tools for a man of the twentieth century.


Sitting there staring at the fire always brought back those memories. He'd known even as a child that his father was a simple man. He himself had eclipsed his father's schooling just by graduating sixth grade. His father had never seen him go on to great things, but the senator always remembered his love, and now as he sipped his Johnny Walker Blue Label, he wished he could go back and just be with his father one more day. Hell, he'd shovel half the horse shit in the county if it meant more time with his father. Then, his thoughts shifted to his own son.


"Do you have children?" he asked the other man in the room.


"I do not."


"Did you ever want them?"


"I never really had the time, senator.”


“Time. It's a funny thing, isn't it?" said Fowler. "We wish it away when we're children, and now I'd give away all my money, all my land, just to get a few precious moments back."


The other man knew better than to pry. His employer would get to the point eventually.


"Let's just assume for a moment that you found out that you had a child, a son, to be exact,” Fowler said. "Now, maybe you never knew about him. Maybe he was in his twenties before you ever knew he existed. Your offspring. A gift from God. Now assume he’s a handful, that he really gives his mother hell. What do you do? Do you step in?"


"I'm not sure I understand the meaning of…”


"Just answer the question," Fowler said.


"Very well, senator. I guess I would assess the situation. If the child was a product of my past indiscretion, then I have to admit that I would probably deny he ever existed. Let his mother deal with it."


"You are a cold man," Fowler said.


In any other circumstance, the man would have taken it as a compliment, but now he must have detected the edge in Fowler's tone because he shifted in his leather chair.


"Senator, if I offended you, I apologize."


Fowler didn't say a word, but just stared into the fire. "I'll tell you what I would do," he said finally. "I would help that boy. I'd use all the influence I had to make sure he was taken care of."


The level of intensity in the senator's tone left no doubt that the man should remember those words. Then, Fowler's face softened. "I had a son once. Have I ever told you that?"


"No, senator. I didn't know."


"Yes, well, I did, as I said, I put my heart and soul into that young man. But as I'm sure you know, young men most often do as they please. They don't have the benefit of decades of wisdom. I've seen your files, and by the way you carry yourself, I can tell that you never been in a speck of trouble, have you?"


For the first time, the man looked trully uncomfortable. "No, sir."


"Never mind the question," Fowler said. "My point is, you'd do anything for family and as an extension, you'd do anything for your country, wouldn't you?"


The man sat up a little straighter. "Yes, sir, I would."


"Is it because you've sworn an oath or because you believe it?" Fowler asked.


"Both, sir. I believe in this country. I fought for it."


"Well, son, I am your country now. I am your family. You belong to me and I you. If you go down, I go down. Is that understood?"


"Yes, senator."


"I tell you this not to sound overly dramatic, but to make sure that you understand the gravity of the situation. You're a fine man, a war hero, but the things I'm about to ask you to do, for me, for your country, may put you at odds with the ideals of your training and the laws of this country. Does that disturb you?"


"Senator, I've been a longtime admirer, but I've also been a lifelong student of American history. Our country needs someone like you at the helm, someone who can make the tough calls, to really put themselves out there. And if I may be so bold as to say so, sir, I would be honored to serve you."


"Well, good," Fowler said. "I'm glad we understand one another. Now, to the task at hand. I’m sure you’ve had ample time to digest the dossiers I gave you. So here’s the next step.” Fowler leaned forward in his chair, the intensity on his face highlighted by flickering fire. “I want you to find this Cal Stokes and this Marine, Daniel Briggs. They are traitors to our country. I don't just want them dead, I want them erased from history."


The young man nodded and Fowler extended his glass in a toast. "To history," Fowler said.


"To history," the man repeated.


Their glasses clinked together, and Fowler savored the feeling of retribution wrapping itself around him like the warm arms tendrils of the Caribbean sun. 

Happy Monday, Team! Sorry I missed you at the end of last week. I was gathering a little info for the long march to the last chapter. I thing I've got some fun things in the coming installments. The plan is to churn out more this week. I need to light that fire! So here we go again. Let me know what you think is going to happen next...

It was Cal's third trip to Roanoke in as many days. He called the Quinn's, of course, before leaving, just to make sure that they'd be home. Tom Quinn confirmed that they would and that they'd just received their son's belongings. When they pulled up to the home, Cal was glad to see the police officer still waiting out front. He looked bored, but at least he was there. 


Patty Quinn greeted he and Daniel like family, offering to make them some food as they stepping inside. 


"There's plenty left over from the visitation," she said. She was right, the kitchen counters were covered with food once again.


Daniel stayed in the kitchen with Mrs. Quinn while Cal took Tom into the living room, "I was wondering if I could take a look at your son's things, see if I might be able to find anything."


Tom stared at him and then gave a little grin. "Why do I have the feeling that you have more resources than the police?"


"I'm not going to promise anything, but it won't hurt to look," Cal said.


"Of course, of course, everything's in Tommy's old room. You remember where it is."


"I do."


"Well, then I'll just be out here if you need me. Take your time, Cal."


There were two rows of boxes lying along the far side of the wall when Cal entered the bedroom. Every one was marked in black Sharpie, T. Quinn. It was obvious that Tommy's parents hadn't looked through the boxes yet. They were still taped shut. 


Cal was glad for that when he opened the first one and found the pistol. Whoever had packed had at least been smart enough to take out the loaded magazine and put it in a Ziploc bag that was now lying next to the pistol. Cal checked to make sure that the chamber was clear and then examined the weapon in his hand. It was an 9mm, but he didn't recognize the maker. 


He was about to call out to Daniel, but when he turned, the sniper was already there. 


"What did you find?" Daniel asked. 


"Nine mill. I don't recognize the maker." 


Daniel took the weapon and checked the clear chamber. 


"I'm pretty sure it's a BUL Impact. They only made them for a few years. Pretty rare in the US.” 


“Why don't you have Neil run the serial number; he might get a hit," Cal said and then went back to sorting boxes.


There were plenty of designer shirts, tailored coats, and fashionable jeans. There was a single picture, the same one he and Diane had seen on their first trip to visit the Quinn's, a grinning Tommy Quinn at boot camp graduation with his parents. Cal set it aside and kept digging. 


It wasn't until he was in the second to last box when he found a laptop. As soon as the home screen popped up, the computer asked for a password. Cal was no hacker, but he had something just as good. He pulled out his cellphone, tapped on the application that had been especially designed by Neil Patel himself. The app activated and Cal set the cellphone on top of the laptop's keyboard. About ten seconds later, the password screen was gone and Cal was staring at a new screen. Cal was no tech genius like Neil, but he didn't have to be. The phone and Neil's program did all the work.


Systemically sorting through the computer's history, five items popped up at a time. The very last thing Tommy Quinn had checked on his computer was the weather. Items two and three were files he’d deleted. Like Neil always told their men, nothing was ever truly deleted. But the files were a dead end. They were just old resumes for jobs that Tommy obviously hadn't gotten. 


Items four and five were routine computer processes. It wasn't until the next batch of five items came up on the screen that Cal got excited. Emails. The first one was addressed to his parents, just a quick hello, checking in to say he loved them. It was the second email that really caught Cal's attention. It was addressed to someone at the Chicago Tribune with the subject line reading, "Insider Information." Cal scanned the email written by Tommy, which basically said that he had information that would impact the standing of a certain high placed lawmaker. He didn't mention which one, but he did include the words, "This politician is ground zero for what's wrong with America."


Cal sifted through five more batches of historical data, but nothing jumped out at him. They were all just mundane daily tasks of a man who was about to die. Finally, Cal gave up. Neil's program had already copied the entire hard drive and The Jefferson Group's big brain was undoubtedly already pouring through the bits of data. 


Cal texted Neil just to confirm that he had everything and then he closed the laptop and put it back in the cardboard box. 


"Find anything interesting?" Tom Quinn said, entering the room. Cal didn't want to lie to the man, but he also didn't want to get his hopes up. 


"That box on the bed has a pistol in it. Just wanted to make sure you knew before Patty started digging through things." 


Tom walked over, lifted the cardboard lid and pulled out the weapon. The chamber was inspected for the third time that day. 


"Was that Tommy’s?” Cal asked.


"I'm not sure."


"Well, if you feel uncomfortable having it in the house ..." "


“No, no, it's fine. I just- Why don't you take it with you? Maybe it'll help in your investigation."


"Tom, I don't know quite how to say this," Cal said awkwardly.


"I know you're not officially investigating, right? I understand, but Cal, I am not a stupid man. I know that all our bills were paid this morning. There is a very short list of people in my immediate circle who might do such a thing, but none of them would have done it that way. They would have told me. The only thing I can assume is that you did it." Cal didn’t say a word. "That's what I thought," Tom said. "Thank you." Cal just nodded. "And as for Tommy's things, well, they're just things now, aren't they? You take whatever you need. And while it's not much, if I can be of help, I will be. All you have to do is ask."


"Thank you, Tom."


"And, Cal?"


"Yes."


"Please, find whoever did this to my boy. I know it won't bring him back, but I'll be goddamned if I have to leave this earth without at least knowing."

A phone call with the reporter from The Chicago Tribune was quick. He prefaced the conversation by saying, "Look, I've got a lot on my plate, so I'll give you three minutes." 


Cal dove right in and asked the reporter about the email Tommy had sent him. The report didn't have to say anything, but to Cal's surprise he started talking, sounding mildly interested now.


"I talked to Tommy one time. I don’t remember it word for word, but I remember the vibe he gave off. He was animated. Not like a lot of kooks I get on the phone, but you could tell he was on edge. A voice like that always reminds me of those movies when somebody's being followed. Anyway, Tommy told me that he was going to deliver a flash drive with some information. I was supposed to meet him."


"Which day was that?" Cal asked. The reporter told him.


"That's the day Tommy Quinn died."


"Wait? He's dead?" the reporter asked.


"Yes. So what happened that day?" 


Now, the reporter was interested, like he'd caught the scent of a juicy story.


“It was the weirdest thing. I got a phone call from this think tank, don't remember the name, something based in Washington. I've got it somewhere in my notes. They told me not to talk to Mr. Quinn. That’s what he called Tommy, Mr. Quinn. The manager told me that Tommy was a disgruntled employee who got fired for poor performance. He even sent me the file, afterwards."


"What did it say?"


"Oh, you know, the usual stuff. Said he was a possible drug addict, that he'd popped on one of their screenings, that he'd been stupid enough to surf porn on the company's computers."


"Do you think it was legit?" Cal asked.


"Who's to say? Well, anyway, in the file itself it actually had Tommy's last words that he yelled at the security guards. He said, "I'm going to bring you guys down.” I thought nothing of it, figured he’d just wasted my time. It was like a typical kid trashing the office before he leaves, and to be quite honest with you, I've got more important things to cover than some disgruntled employee. Have you seen the murder rate in Chicago lately?”


"Yeah, I have," Cal said, "but listen, did you get anything in the mail from him or…?”


"You're asking about the flash drive," the reporter guessed, “No, but now that you've called I'll definitely keep an eye out for it."


"Would you mind letting me know if you get it?"


"That depends. What's in it for me?"


Cal wasn't a fan of reporters but he decided to throw the guy a bone. "I'll give you the whole story if there's anything to it."


"Deal," the reporter said. Although by now it didn't seem like he was that interested, more of one of those, "Ah, it could be a story or it's probably not," kind of attitudes. Cal ended the call after thanking the man and giving him his phone number.


"Anything good?" Daniel asked. He was at the wheel. They'd decided to go out for dinner and pick something up for the Quinns and then head back to Charlottesville.


Neil hadn't gotten any hits on the pistol, but Cal knew it was only a matter of time. Anything with a serial number had a history and even if it was stolen, he could still track most of the owners.


"Tell me we aren't wasting our time with this," Cal said.


"We are not wasting our time with this," Daniel said without looking away from the road ahead.


"Well, I'm glad you think so because I'm starting to get the feeling that we're about to piss off some very important people."


Daniel chuckled. "What else is new?"

The train is chugging now. Full speed ahead. More good news today. My cover designer got me the draft of our new book cover (Ignore the subtitle. That has to be changed). Let me know what you think. Now back to the show...

When you've been through hard times, when you've seen death, destruction and also their polar opposite, lives snatched from the cruel grip of the Grim Reaper and light where there once was none, you sometimes get the taste for peculiar trivialities. At times this coalesces into an old habit based on an even older memory. 


For Gaucho, former Delta operator and current team leader for The Jefferson Group, this took the form of waiting in lines. It didn't matter where he was, the grocery store, Disney World or where he stood now, in the line at the post office, that his memories would take him back to those early days with his mother. They would stand in line for what felt like days waiting for assistance from the church or holding out for one more hour for a low-paying job.


You would think that Gaucho would hold such memories in low regard, a piece of his history that he'd like to forget, but it was in those moments of waiting that his mother would relay her patient wisdom. A native of Mexico, his mother was a gentle soul with a strict work ethic. She would tell young Gaucho stories of their family's past. There was always a lesson tucked away like a hidden treasure. Sometimes she was teaching him that he should always do his best or that in their new home, the United States, it was important to know the land and to know the language. The most important lesson of all was to be a good man, to acquire knowledge and to never go back from where they came.


Gaucho replayed those memories now, a small indulgence on his part, his mother long dead. He smiled at the thought. "You always do your best, Chito,” she would say in her broken English. She'd been so proud to be an American, even when she was mocked for her accent or turned away from yet another job. There was always that pride. And of course, when she'd finally gotten her American citizenship, after months of applying and studying, that had been a grand day in their little family.


Gaucho had never had a family of his own. He'd been too busy fighting for his country, but he had no doubt that by his actions, he'd paid his mother's wisdom forward. Her legacy lived on through him and through those he touched, so as the line at the post office shifted one more person forward, Gaucho was content, even as the man behind him grumbled something about how long it took and the woman two ahead complained about the skyrocketing price of shipping a large envelope.


Finally, Gaucho got his turn. Now, fully flooded with the spirit of his mother, he chuckled at the thought. In a post office, of all places, he thought, saying a quick prayer for the soul of his beloved mother.


"Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?" said the tired clerk from behind the high counter.


"I just have a couple envelopes to mail." He handed over two standard size manila envelopes.


"You know sir, there's a kiosk right outside in the lobby. You are welcome to use them at any time." She paused for a moment, as if he'd snatch them back and run to the kiosk, but he didn't.


He just smiled and said, "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind for next time."


The clerk gave a little huff that could’ve indicated that for every hundred times she mentioned the self-service station, maybe one person would take her up on the offer. Gaucho could see she wasn't a bad person, just tired and overworked, but her swift keystrokes, the efficient way she tore the postage and laid it lovingly upon the envelope showed her skill. 


When she was finished, she totaled the bill and said, "How would you like to pay for that, sir?"


Before he could get out the words "Credit, please." There was a loud bang from behind, like someone dropped a box on the floor. Gaucho did not turn like everyone else did but he did see the eyes of the clerk go wide.


"Nobody move,” came the raspy mail voice. The clerk shot her hands in the air. Gaucho still didn't turn but whispered reassuringly to the clerk, "It'll be okay." A baby was crying and someone was whimpering nearby.


"You. Short guy at the counter, turn around."


"You said not to move,” Gaucho replied.


"Turn around,” the man said. 


Gaucho did as he was told and turned around slowly. The disheveled man hadn't even thought to wear a mask. Didn't he know that robbing a post office was a federal crime? 


"Everyone pull our your wallets. Put them on the floor, and you, behind the counter, all the money in the bag." He tossed a backpack over Gaucho's head. Everyone was fumbling with pockets or purses as the man panned back and forth with his pistol. It took a few moments for the thief to realize that Gaucho hadn't moved.


"I said put your wallet on the floor."


"Sorry. No can do, amigo."


"What did you say?" The man stepped closer, his features twisted with rage.


"I said no can do. Lunch is on me today and the boys might get upset if I come home empty-handed."


"Listen asshole. You and your freak show braided beard can go to hell. I will shoot you if you don't give me your money."


"All right. You win." Gaucho said, slipping the wallet from his pocket, careful not to show the other bulge in his waistband. "Here you go." Gaucho tossed the wallet up onto the mail counter that lay between them. The man snatched it up and stuffed it in his hoodie pocket. The back and forth had given Gaucho the information he needed. All he had to do now was wait. 


Confident that Gaucho was no longer a threat, the robber started barking orders to the rest of them.


"You, over there. Gather up all the wallets and put them in a box.” An old man did as instructed, entire body shaking as he went about his task. "And you, shut that baby up." The gun-wielding man said to a mother huddled in the corner, trying her best to soothe her crying child.


The man's focus was wholly on the screaming child, so Gaucho made his move. He pivoted and with his momentum, reached out to yank the mail scale from the counter between he and the clerk. With one fluid motion, he spun the rest of the way around and flung it at the criminal. But he didn't stop there. With a quick hop, he was on top of the tall table, even as the scale slammed into the man's gun wielding hand, sending the weapon flying, undoubtedly shattering bones in the empty hand. The man's grimaced and his eyes followed the weapon as it skittered to the floor. Then realized too late that another threat loomed overhead.


Gaucho timed his jump perfectly, just as the criminal leaned back, and when he came down the man's hands were in the air between them, trying to block him but that would be impossible. Gaucho might have been smaller in stature, but his short, burly form was more than a match for his target. Knees leading the way, Gaucho crashed into the man's chest. Legs crumpled and the man howled. A second later, the former Delta operator was straddling his prey.


"Don't move,” he said to the man who was struggling to regain his breath. "Someone call the police,” Gaucho barked and then he realized his phone was buzzing in his pocket. He pulled it out and grinned. "Hey, Cal." Gaucho listened for a moment and then said "Sure. Let me finish what I’m doing, then I'll be on my way." He hung up the phone and then said to the wide-eyed man underneath him, "You know, you really should work on your timing.”

Most of The Jefferson Groups key players were now in attendance. Their CEO, Jonah Layton, was out of the country with the president and Dr. Higgins, their chief psychologist and expert interrogator was at Fort Bragg helping the Army. They would both be apprised of the situation if it really was a situation. Cal and Daniel had already relay the story of the chase to Top, Gaucho and Neil. Neil was only half listening as he clicked away on four different computer screens.


"So you’re sure you don't remember this Quinn kid? Top asked Cal.


"I don't know, maybe, you know how it is in the Marine Corps. I could've met him once, but it wasn't memorable enough for the name or the face to stick."


"And what about his parents? Do you think they have something to do with it?" Gaucho asked.


"No way,” Cal said. "They're good people, I'm not sure what their son was into, but I’ll bet they were trying to help him out. Neil found out that they took out a second mortgage on their home in the past six months. Then their near-perfect credit tanked."


“I got those utilities paid, by the way,” Neil said.


"What bills?" Top asked.


"When Diane and I went to visit them the first time, there was a stack of overdue utility bills in their mailbox. I had Neil pay the bills online."


"That was nice of you."


"It wasn't much," Cal shrugged. "Besides, they're good people and I hate to see their electricity turned off."


"Okay, so let's rehash,” Top said. "You were out getting an ice cream cone with sprinkles on top and a Maserati crashes not fifty feet from where you stand. You go to help and the guy inside says your name and 'eyes on the prize.' What does that mean?“ 


Cal said. "Honestly, maybe it was just something he said when he was living. A dying man can say all sorts of things, you know that."


Everyone around the room nodded, except for Neil.


"Okay," Top continued.


"So this guy dies in your arms, you and Diane go and visit his parents. By the way does Diane know about all of this?"


"She doesn't know all the details," Cal said.


"You think that's smart?”


"After what happened in Europe, I'd like to know all the facts before I tell my girlfriend, if that's okay with you."


Top took the hint.


"So look, I think we dig into this guy's life, talk to his old friends, maybe see if his Marine reserve unit remembers him.”


“What about the guy that clocked you?" Gaucho asked.


It was Neil who answered. "I just got into the system at Roanoke and they don't have cameras a that junction. So no dice on a positive I.D. 


"All we've got is Tommy Quinn and his parents,” Top added.


"And his parents,” Cal repeated.


"Now, say we divvy up the-"


"I got it!" Neil said, interrupting the conversation. He was pulling up multiple windows now, one after another and everyone gathered around.


"Okay, here's what I've got,” Neil said. "It took me longer than normal, but our systems aren’t completely back on line yet. I've been having to build it piece by piece. I told you that, right Cal?"


“Sure, sure. What'd you find?" Cal said, urging his sometimes distracted friend forward.


"Well, Thomas Quinn Jr. worked for a conservative think tank in D.C." Neil read off the name. It didn't ring a bell with Cal.


"What did he do for them?"


“Let’s see…it says here he was a security consultant. Got paid pretty well for it too." Then he paused, scanning the screen. "Hmmm, that's interesting," Neil said, pointing. "A few months back the think tank suffered a massive cyber security breach, put everyone on high alert. Now that's not rare these days, but what's interesting is that the breach happened exactly one day after Tommy Quinn was let go.”


"Wait. He was fired?" Cal asked.


"That's what it looks like, there's no official two weeks notice or anything like that. I mean I could be wrong, but it has all the markings of Tommy Quinn getting canned.” 


“All right. Neil, you keep digging. Daniel, I think you and I need to go back up and see the Quinns, see if they've gotten Tommy's personal things. Maybe we'll get lucky.” 


“What do you want us to do?" Top asked.


"Why don't you and Gaucho hang tight and see what else Neil can find. We'll flex as needed." 


Then as Neil rattled off the contributors to the Washington think tank, no one thought twice when the name of Senator Warren Fowler from Wisconsin was said aloud.