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Two agencies that don’t put their names on doors.

No one argues jurisdiction.

No one slows it down.

Attempted kidnapping of a protected minor connected to a multi-state criminal conspiracy has a magical effect on paperwork.

“We go wide,” the U.S. Attorney says. “Not surgical. Not quiet.”

“Good,” I reply. “He’s already running.”

“Warrants?” someone asks.

“Emergency,” she says. “Phones. Properties. Vehicles. Associates. Shell companies. We tear the web.”

“Arrests?”

“Everyone we can legally touch.”

I watch the clock.

At 14:12, the first warrants are signed.

At 14:19, the first doors come off hinges.

At 14:31, one of Rourke’s accountants starts crying.

At 14:44, one of his logistics men tries to jump out a window.

At 15:03, we find the safe house.

Empty.

Of course it is.

“He’s ghosting,” an agent says.

“No,” I say. “He’s bleeding.”

My mother’s arrest took the shield.

Trying to grab the baby gave us the sword.

My phone rings.

Saint.

“They’ll keep coming,” he says.

“Yes,” I agree. “But now they’re doing it blind.”

“What about him?”

“We’re collapsing everything he needs to exist,” I say. “Money. Transport. Cover. Friends.”

“That doesn’t stop a desperate man.”

“No,” I say. “It makes him sloppy.”