The entire team had been told to conduct an SDR and then rally back at a three-story townhouse Erin Childers had rented for them in Meridian Hill, just twenty minutes to the north in an urban area of the city between Adams Morgan and Columbia Heights.

It was pitch-black by the time they arrived. Travers pulled the Pacifica into the one-car garage, while Court found parking in the alley out back for the Savana.

Once there, everyone climbed out and immediately stepped into the townhouse. Here, Jill sat at a dining table on the ground floor with several laptops in front of her, and Matt Hanley had just finished brewing a pot of coffee in the nearby kitchen.

The small team converged around the table, asset and support member alike, and they talked about the afternoon. Jill began running facial recognition on everyone picked up on both Arnold’s glasses and the several camera feeds she’d been able to hack into, both in the subway and on the street outside the museum.

As she did this, Hanley said, “I watched the stream as it came in. I don’t think she was there to meet someone. I think she was there to try to spy on somebody else.”

“Yeah,” Court said. “And whoever was meeting in there, at least one of those parties knew Irene was going to be there. A lady was tailing her on the train, and they already had the meet location secure with more bodies.” He thought a moment. “If Irene is not the leak in the government we’ve been looking for, then she could be in danger from whoever is.”

Travers shook his head. “I wouldn’t say ‘danger.’ The two men I saw . . . they looked like muscle, like contractors, former soldiers, cops, whatever. But they did not strike me as assassins.”

To this, Hightower used his coffee mug to motion across the table to- wards Court. “Does this squirrelly little fucker strike you as an assassin?”

Travers conceded the point. “Not at all.”

“I’m five-ten,” Court mumbled in frustration.

“Which brings me to my next point,” Hanley said. “Today was not how I want us doing things. Making the decision to push Arnold into the eye position for what could have been a critical—”

Court interrupted. “You realize that if Teddy, me, or Night Train were in that museum today, we could easily have been picked up on by counter- surveillance. It took sending a guy like Bricklayer in there . . .” He looked to Arnold. “No offense.”

Arnold just waved a hand in the air, dismissing his worry, and he sipped his coffee.

Hanley said, “You’re the fucking Gray Man. You could have—”

“I was dressed as a telecom repairman. I had a change of clothes in the Pacifica, but I didn’t know we’d be going to a museum until after I’d gotten into the Savana.”

Hanley turned to Hightower. “What’s your excuse? You look like the roadie for an aging death metal band.”

Zack’s eyes flitted around the room. “Thanks?”

“You’re getting a haircut and a shave before you do anything else operational.”

“Understood. When I get back from Boulder, I’ll look like a choirboy.”

Matt sighed. “You don’t have to look like a choirboy. You can look like a car salesman, an accountant, whatever. You cannot look like a professional wrestler.”

“Loud and clear, boss.”