Washington greeted them with roadblocks.
Not literal ones—the streets were open, traffic flowing normally. But Rick felt it the moment they crossed into the District. Something was wrong. Police cars everywhere. More than usual. Military vehicles that shouldn't be there. Checkpoints at major intersections.
Catherine woke, instantly alert. "What's happening?"
Rick didn't answer. He tuned the radio, found a news station.
"—continuing coverage of the domestic terrorism investigation. Federal authorities have issued arrest warrants for two suspects in connection with the riots in Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and Detroit. Richard Forsyth, former Army intelligence officer, and Catherine Dupré, suspected foreign agent, are considered armed and dangerous—"
Catherine's face went white. "They're already running the story. Before Thunderbird even starts. They're framing us now."
The radio continued: "—authorities say Forsyth and Dupré are believed to be working with radical groups and possibly foreign agents to destabilize American industrial centers. The ATF has taken lead on the investigation, with support from the FBI and military intelligence. Citizens are urged to report any sightings immediately—"
Rick switched it off. His hands were steady on the wheel but his mind was racing. Morrison had moved faster than expected. The frame-up wasn't waiting for Thunderbird's attacks—it was already in motion. By the time Chicago burned tomorrow, Rick and Catherine would already be established as the villains.
"ATF headquarters," Reed said from the backseat. "That's suicide now. They're looking for you. The building will be crawling with agents."
"Then we find another way in," Rick said.
"There is no other way." Reed's voice carried defeated certainty. "Every entrance will be monitored. Every face checked against your photographs. You won't make it through the front door."
Catherine touched Rick's arm. "He's right. We need another plan."
Rick's jaw tightened. They'd come this far. They had evidence that could expose Prometheus Protocol, stop Thunderbird, maybe even prevent the government from letting Pearl Harbor happen. But evidence was useless if they couldn't get it to someone who'd act on it.
"Hartley," Rick said. "James Hartley, Deputy Director. My father trusted him. If we can reach him—"
"How?" Catherine asked. "Call the ATF switchboard? They'll trace it in seconds."
Rick thought about it. Hartley was old-school ATF—former Treasury agent, prohibition investigator, someone who'd built his career on exposing bootleggers and corrupt officials. If anyone in Washington was still clean, it would be him.
"His home," Rick said. "We go to his home. Tonight. Off the record."
"And if he's compromised?" Reed asked.
"Then we die," Rick said simply. "But at least we try."
They found a rooming house in Southeast Washington—the kind of place that didn't ask questions if you paid cash. Rick used the last of their money to rent a room with a fire escape and clear sight lines to the street.
Catherine collapsed on the bed, exhausted. Her arm needed proper medical attention, but hospitals were out of the question now. Rick did what he could—cleaned the wound, rewrapped the bandage, gave her aspirin from a corner drugstore.
Reed sat by the window, watching the street. "They'll find us," he said quietly. "Morrison has resources you can't imagine. Every police officer, every federal agent, every informant in this city will be looking for you."
"Let them look," Rick said.
He spread Scott's files across the table—evidence of a conspiracy that reached into the highest levels of government. Evidence that could stop Thunderbird. Evidence that was completely useless if they couldn't survive the next twelve hours.
Catherine's voice came from the bed, hoarse but determined. "What time do we move?"
"After dark," Rick said. "When the streets are emptier. When we have a chance."
"We don't have a chance," Reed said. "You understand that, right? Even if Hartley believes you, even if he acts on this evidence—Morrison has contingencies. He's planned for exposure. The conspiracy is bigger than one man, bigger than one agency. You can't stop what's already—"
"In motion," Rick finished. "Yeah, I've heard that before."
He looked at the files. At the proof of mass murder disguised as patriotism. At the evidence of men who'd decided that American lives were acceptable currency for their vision of history.
His father had died trying to stop this. Scott had died helping them. Catherine might die before morning. And Rick—Rick had already accepted that he probably wouldn't survive this either.
But maybe that was okay. Maybe some things were worth dying for.
Outside, Washington descended into twilight. Somewhere in the city, Morrison was finalizing Thunderbird's launch. Somewhere in the Pacific, Japanese carriers steamed toward Pearl Harbor. Somewhere in the machinery of government, men were making decisions that would kill thousands.
And in a cheap rooming house in Southeast Washington, three desperate people prepared to make one last attempt to stop it all.
Rick checked his father's Colt one more time. Seven rounds.
It would have to be enough.