As they cornered the end of the hall and she found herself squeezed between the bed and the wall, Nancy barked, "Easy! Bring it around easy. All right, we're off!"

With that they rushed the bed into the OR. As a team they transferred mother to operating table.

The gloved anesthesiologist was already syringing his sleep chemical in Latoya's IV. Her eyes fluttered and closed in an instant. The team stood around, nervously whispering; everyone studied the clock on the OR wall.

At 7:00 straight up, Dr. Springer paged Sue Gartner. Would she again page the hospital for any other OBs that might be on-site? And where the hell's Dr. Payne? Moments later they heard Sue's page, but no one responded to the OR.

So, they waited.

5.

The OR clock crawled to 7:16, at which time Dr. Payne floated through the door. Immediately he was gowned and gloved. He straightway moved to the operating table and placed the scalpel against Latoya's belly. It was noted but not recorded anywhere that he had a strong odor of alcoholic beverage, as the DWI cops would put it. Andrea carefully followed his work, ready to speak up if there was the slightest fault in what he was trying to do. She had had it with him and would risk a disciplinary complaint by him in order to make sure things went correctly from then on.

At 7:18 Dr. Payne lifted the newborn from the mother's abdomen. The baby was severely jaundiced and barely moving. It was clear to the attending staff there was something seriously wrong with this baby. They suctioned the infant and handed if off to the newborn unit. Dr. Payne closed the mother's abdomen and smiled at her as she came to.

Latoya was very groggy. "How is he? He was stuck in there so long!"

The doctor opened his mouth but was speechless. He shook his head and quickly closed and began bandaging the wound. "All right, then, I'm off."

"Latoya, are you ready to ride up to your room?" It was Andrea and her voice was strangely subdued. It didn't fool Latoya, who began crying, softly at first, then growing in volume as she reached greater consciousness.

"Where is he? How come I can't see him!"

"He's being cleaned up. It'll just be a few minutes."

Her face was wet with tears and her head sweaty. "Where's my baby, is he coming too? And where the hell is John? Why isn't my husband here?"

Dr. Springer said, "Doctor Payne said your baby is with the newborn doctors right now. They're assessing him and we should have him in to meet you very soon."

As they headed out into the hallway, Nurse Andrea asked, "What's his name?"

Latoya, quietly crying, managed, "With all this running around and fuss, my baby's name is going to be Chase. My baby's name is Chase."

6.

Two hours post-delivery, a neonatal team of physicians and nurses was working on Chase Staples. They were chilling him in an effort to avoid further damage.

Dr. Amelia Henry, head of neonatology, said, "Whose baby is this? Who the fuck let this happen?"

Frank Adamson, M.D., who accompanied the baby from the OR said, "Phillip Payne. It's one of his."

"Not the first one he's had."

"This is the second this year."

Dr. Henry softly grasped Chase's tiny hand and shook his head. "Gentlemen and ladies, we have a bad baby on our hands."

"A very bad baby."

Dr. Henry looked up. "Someone who prays, this is a great time for a prayer."

7.

"You'll be charged with obstruction of justice."

"He kidnapped my little girl. Now she won't talk. He has to pay for what he's done."

"I knew this would happen." Special Agent Pauline Pepper was furious. She flicked a yellow lighter and fired up a Salem. She swore softly. Her dark green eyes flashed and she fixed Thaddeus Murfee with her 1000 yard stare. He met her gaze and they locked eyes. She dared him, he dared her.

They were seated at a twenty-person conference table, papers strewn before them out to the fifty yard line, and more documents on the way as office workers scurried about the Chicago FBI Regional Office, gathering all items demanded by Thaddeus in his Freedom of Information Act request.

"How about I don't respond to your written request? How about I make you take me to court?"

He shrugged. "I can do that. Happy to oblige, Miss Pepper."

"Asshole."

Their dispute was territorial. The Freedom of Information Act data dump had revealed the identity of his daughter's kidnapper. The rest of the documents being brought into the room by the FBI's clerical staff were simply icing on the cake. More would be revealed once he had it all copied and back in his own office where he could silence the phones, kick off his shoes, and spend a couple of days going over each and every document and photograph with a microscope. When he was done, he would have a full and complete picture of Sarai's kidnapper. He would have the target's photograph-probably several. He would have his last known address, usual occupation, Social Security number (if there was one-who knew where the guy might be from), and all the rest of the bits and pieces the world's greatest criminal agency had amassed about the guy.

The FBI sit-rep room in Chicago was quiet. An HVAC fan could be hear spinning in the ceiling.

"You're not hearing me, Thaddeus. You so much as follow this guy around the block and I will personally see to it that you're charged with obstruction of justice and arrested.

Thaddeus shook his head. "Funny thing is, the guy didn't kidnap your daughter. It was mine. Do you know she still won't speak? And she's five years old!"

"Nobody is sorrier to hear that than I am. Trust me."

"The doctors don't know what to do with her, the shrinks can't drag a word or a facial expression out of her."

"God." Her voice came down an octave. "What do they say it is?"

"PTSD is the working diagnosis. Katy thinks she's autistic. From the kidnapping."

"What do you think?"

Thaddeus grimaced. "I think I'd like five minutes with the guy. That's all I'm asking."

"Thaddeus we know your history. We know what you do to bad guys. But this guy is a matter of national security."

Thaddeus tilted his head questioningly. "What's that mean?"

"We believe he's part of a cell. That's all I can say right now. Except do not interfere. Do I have your word?"

"You have my word that I'll do whatever it takes to protect my family. Fair enough?"

"Brother, you've been warned."

"I will promise this. I won't do anything until after I've been through every shred of paper and have had my own security people analyze what you've turned over."

Pepper slammed her fist against the table. "This FOIA does not entitle you to take the first shot. Ragman belongs to the FBI. We will hunt him down and bring him to justice."

Thaddeus could only smile. "You're starting to sound like your fearless leader, the President now. He's always about to 'hunt someone down' and 'bring them to justice.' That's cop talk for make an arrest, have a trial, Fed Fun Farm for 36 months, then back on the street. That won't work this time."

"Then interfere. You'll be the one headed to jail."

Thaddeus nodded. "That wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened to me since I sued the mob. Not by far."

Agent Pepper crushed the Salem and thoughtfully peeled the paper from the stub. She pushed around the overflowing ashtray, deep in thought.

"Tell you what, Thad. How about I promise to give you weekly sit-reps on the guy if you keep out of it. That's something I never do, but I'll make an exception in your case."

"It's a start."

"Will that keep your dick in your pants?"

"I can't promise anything today."

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. "Let's get this stuff copied. We'll help load it in your car."

"My Tesla's downstairs. It won't hold much."

"How about we scan it and I send you a CD?"

"That'll work. By Friday?"

"Monday?"

"Done."

He extended his hand and they shook.

A temporary truce had been reached.

Very temporary, he thought to himself. Very temporary.

8.

Four Middle Eastern men entered the famed Willis Building (ex Sears Tower) in Chicago. Four cell mates. One was expert in nuclear engineering, one in computer networks, one in electrical engineering, and one in cartography. Sullen and angry, all wearing backpacks secured by locks requiring a thumbprint to open. They were dressed not as TV terrorists in black pajamas, sandals, and turbans. These four were dressed business casual: Dockers, Ralph Lauren Polo shirts, tasseled loafers, and Gucci eyeglasses. They looked like the computer geeks laboring in the computer network room where servers whirr and data gets deep-frozen for instant access by corporate masters.

In the football fieldsize lobby of the nation's tallest building they approached the bank of forty elevators and moved to the far end, away from the corporate types jammed together for a ride upstairs. There was no security to pass through, no X-rays of backpack contents, no electronic scans for weapons. At the concierge desk the four uniformed employees were lost in conversation, comparing happiness levels about the overtime game the Bulls won the night before against the Miami Heat. No notice of the four men was taken. They were as plain-vanilla as the thousands of other computer geeks and corporate servants who passed through the lobby 24/7.

Without a spoken word they rode the elevator skyward eighty-five floors and exited into a lush hallway, deeply carpeted and lined with richly paneled walls. At one end was an unmarked door. At the other was an opaque glass door marked "Worldwide Expositions." They proceeded single-file to the glass door and entered without speaking to the male receptionist, who was wearing a holstered Colt .45 ACP. The foursome disappeared down a long hallway that terminated at an open conference room. At either side of the open door lurked hulking, swarthy men in expensive suits, unsmiling, but moving aside as the men approached, to allow passage. The four men entered the room, arranged themselves around the curved end of the forty-foot table, and removed their backpacks. Last man in turned and quietly closed the heavy steel-lined door.

"Exactly as ordered," said the man who chose the seat at the head of the table.

"Yes, Ragman," said the prematurely gray electrical engineer. He had a two-day growth and protruding eyes, giving him a haunted, owlish look. His name was Omar Kayem, affectionately called Kilowatt by his cellmates.

Ragman scowled. "Didn't even stop us and ask us our business. Who are these Americans? Don't they realize the sword of Islam is ready to fall on them?"

The computer scientist smiled. His real name was Maliki Al-Salim. "Ragman, NSA has intercepted every text we have sent over the last two weeks. Disinformation is in play." Named for Data of Star Wars fame, Al-Salim looked at their leader, hoping for his approval. Not everyone had a man placed inside the NSA with full access to all data. But Data did.

"Your man tells you NSA has our messages?" said Ragman.

"Yes," said Data. "And the reliability score is in the ninety-ninth percentile."

"The data score or your man's score?"

Data smiled and nodded, again seeking approbation. "Both."

"Excellent," said Kilowatt. "You have done well, Data."

"It's a team effort," said Data. "We must never forget."

"Precisely," said Ragman. He shot Data a quick smile, which relaxed all faces around the table.

The fourth man was Maps.

They used code names in all communications. All men were on no-fly lists; none was in the United States by visa. All were illegal, all were terrorists pursued day and night by Interpol and the FBI. To a man, all had proven his allegiance to Allah by the assassination of a family member. It meant nothing.

Now they had come together for the Final Solution.

They unloaded their backpacks.

There was a beryllium shell. Two hundred feet of wire. A dozen bars of C4 to implode the blast into the core.