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She stood close, like a lover saying farewell, only she had her knuckle pressed right into the lowest part of his sternum and was twisting it there like a screw. “After we’re gone—what are you going to do? I want to know.”

Eph looked past her at Zack, standing with Nora’s mother, dutifully holding her hand. Eph said, “I’m going to try to stop this thing. What do you think?”

“I think it’s too late for that, and you know it. Come with us. If you’re doing this for the old man—I feel the same way about him you do. But it’s over, we both know that. Come with us. We’ll regroup there. We’ll figure out our next move. Setrakian will understand.”

Eph felt her pull on him more than the pain of her knuckle in his breastbone. “We still have a chance here,” he said. “I believe that.”

“We”—she made sure he saw that she was referring to the two of them—“still have a chance also, if we both get out of here now.”

Eph pulled the last bag off his shoulder and hung it on hers. “Weapon bag,” he said. “In case you run into any trouble.”

Angry tears wet her eyes. “You should know that, if you end up doing something stupid here, I am determined to hate you forever.”

He nodded once.

She kissed his lips, wrapping him in an embrace. Her hand found the butt of the pistol in the small of Eph’s back, and her eyes darkened, her head moving back to study his face. For a moment Eph thought she was going to yank it out and take it from him, but instead she came close again, right up to his ear, her cheek wet with tears.

She whispered, “I hate you already.”

She pulled away, not looking back at him as she gathered up Zack and her mother and ushered them toward the departures board.

Eph waited and watched Zack go, the boy looking back as they reached the corner, searching for him. Eph waved, his hand high—but the boy didn’t see him. The Glock tucked inside Eph’s belt suddenly felt heavier.

Inside the former headquarters of the Canary Project at Eleventh and 27th, the director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Dr. Everett Barnes, was napping in an office chair inside Ephraim Goodweather’s old office. The ringing telephone penetrated his consciousness, but not enough to rouse him. It took the hand of an FBI special agent on his shoulder to do that.

Barnes sat up, shaking off sleep, feeling refreshed. “Washington?” he guessed.

The agent shook his head. “Goodweather.”

Barnes pressed the flashing button on the desk phone and picked up the receiver. “Ephraim? Where are you?”

“Penn Station. Phone booth.”

“Are you all right?”

“I just put my son on a train out of the city.”

“Yes?”

“I’m ready to come in.”

Barnes looked at the agent and nodded. “I am very relieved to hear that.”

“I’d like to see you personally.”

“Stay where you are, I am on my way.”

He hung up and the agent handed him his coat. Barnes was attired in full Navy regalia. They went out the main office and down the steps to the curb, where Dr. Barnes’s black SUV was parked. Barnes climbed into the passenger side and the agent started the ignition.

The blow came so suddenly, Barnes didn’t know what was happening. Not to him—to the FBI agent. The man slumped forward, honking the horn with his chin. He tried to raise his hands and a second blow came—from the backseat. A hand wielding a pistol. It took one more blow to knock out the agent, leaving him slumped against the door.

The assailant was out of the backseat and opening the driver’s door, pulling out the unconscious man and dumping him onto the sidewalk like a big bag of laundry.

Ephraim Goodweather leaped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Barnes opened his door, but Eph pulled him back inside, jamming the gun against the inside of Barnes’s thigh rather than his head. Only a doctor or perhaps a soldier knew that you might survive a head or neck wound, but one shot to the femoral artery meant certain death.

“Close it,” said Eph.

Barnes did. Eph already had the SUV in drive, and was racing out onto 27th Street.