They left the rooming house at 9 PM, when darkness had fully settled over Washington. Hartley lived in Georgetown—a fashionable neighborhood where a car full of fugitives would stand out like blood on snow.
Rick drove slowly, avoiding main streets. Catherine sat beside him, her injured arm cradled against her chest. Reed was silent in the back, his eyes tracking every shadow, every passing car.
"Turn left here," Catherine said, studying the street map they'd bought. "Hartley's house is three blocks north."
Rick turned. The street was lined with brick townhouses, their windows glowing warm against the November cold. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that the world was about to catch fire.
He was two blocks from Hartley's address when he saw them.
Black sedans. Four of them, parked at intervals along the street. Men in dark suits standing on corners, trying to look casual and failing. The whole block was a trap.
"They're watching his house," Catherine said quietly.
"Of course they are," Reed muttered. "Morrison knew you'd try this. He's had Hartley's home staked out since yesterday."
Rick kept driving, didn't slow down, didn't look directly at the watchers. Just another car passing through. But his mind was racing. If they couldn't reach Hartley, if every potential ally was monitored—
The sedan appeared from nowhere.
It roared out of a side street, engine screaming, cutting directly across their path. Rick swerved hard, tires squealing. Another sedan came from behind, boxing them in. A third blocked the intersection ahead.
"Out!" Rick shouted. "Now!"
They abandoned the car, running for the narrow alley between two townhouses. Behind them, car doors slammed. Men shouting. Footsteps pounding pavement.
The alley was dark, cluttered with trash cans and fire escapes. Rick led them deeper, his Colt drawn. Catherine was limping badly now, her face pale with pain. Reed gasped for breath, not built for running.
They emerged onto a parallel street—and found more agents waiting.
Muzzle flashes lit the darkness. Bullets sparked off brick. Rick returned fire, driving the agents into cover, buying seconds. They ducked through a gate into a private garden, crashed through hedges, came out on another street entirely.
But the cordon was tightening. More cars arriving. More men. Morrison had mobilized half of Washington's federal agents for this hunt.
"We can't—" Catherine started.
A car screeched to a halt beside them. Not a sedan—an old Ford truck, battered and unremarkable. The driver leaned across to throw open the passenger door.
"Get in! Now!"
Rick didn't recognize the voice. Didn't recognize the face—middle-aged man, weathered features, military bearing barely concealed beneath civilian clothes.
But he recognized the eyes. He'd seen them in photographs in his father's study. Eyes that had seen combat, that had seen friends die, that carried old weight.
"Major Forsyth always said you had his stubborn streak," the man said. "Now get in before they circle back."
Rick made the decision in a heartbeat. They piled into the truck—Catherine in front, Rick and Reed crammed in the narrow back seat. The driver accelerated smoothly, not too fast, just another vehicle on a Washington street.
Behind them, agents emerged from the alley, looked around confused. The truck was already turning a corner, disappearing into traffic.
"Who the hell are you?" Rick demanded, Colt still in his hand.
"Name's Coleman. Frank Coleman." The man's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, watching for pursuit. "Former Army intelligence. Served with your father in France, 1918. Been watching you since Cleveland."
"Watching us?" Catherine's voice was sharp with suspicion.
"Watching Morrison," Coleman corrected. "And the people he works for. Your father wasn't the only one who noticed things didn't add up. Wasn't the only one asking questions about where all this is heading."
He turned onto a wider boulevard, merging with evening traffic. Just another truck among hundreds. Anonymous. Safe, for the moment.
"There are others," Coleman continued. "Not many. But enough. Military intelligence officers who remember what we're supposed to be protecting. Treasury agents who've noticed money disappearing into black operations. A few FBI men who aren't comfortable with the new definition of 'national security.'"
"A resistance," Rick said slowly.
"Not that organized. More like... concerned citizens in positions to notice things." Coleman's jaw tightened. "We've been tracking Prometheus Protocol for eighteen months. Ever since your father first brought it to our attention. We couldn't stop it. Couldn't even slow it down. The conspiracy goes too deep, has too much momentum."
"Then why save us?" Reed asked.
Coleman glanced at him in the mirror. "Because you have Scott's files. Because you have evidence that could at least expose what they're doing, even if we can't stop it. And because—" He looked at Rick. "—your father died believing this country was worth saving. I owed him the chance to be right."
They drove in silence for several blocks. Rick's mind was reeling. His father hadn't been alone. Had never been alone. There were others fighting this shadow war, trying to hold back the darkness.
"Where are you taking us?" Catherine asked.
"Safe house. Well, safer than where you've been." Coleman turned onto a residential street in Northeast Washington. "We've been preparing for this. Knew eventually Morrison would force a confrontation. Figured you'd be at the center of it."
The house was modest, unremarkable—exactly the kind of place that wouldn't draw attention. Coleman pulled into the detached garage, closed the door behind them before anyone got out.
Inside, two other people were waiting.
One was a woman in her fifties, sharp-eyed and competent-looking, wearing a Treasury Department ID badge on her belt. The other was younger, maybe thirty, with the careful posture of someone trained to notice everything.
"Sarah Winters, Treasury," the woman said, shaking Rick's hand firmly. "This is Thomas Webb, FBI."
"Former FBI," Webb corrected quietly. "As of three days ago, when I made the mistake of asking too many questions about Pittsburgh."
They gathered around a kitchen table covered with maps, documents, surveillance photographs. Evidence of their own investigation into Prometheus Protocol.
"We've been trying to build a case," Winters explained. "Something solid enough to take to Congress, to the press, to anyone who'd listen. But Morrison's covered his tracks too well. Every time we get close to proof, witnesses disappear. Documents vanish. People transfer to Alaska or get promoted to desk jobs where they can't cause trouble."
"We have proof," Rick said. He pulled out Scott's files, spread them on the table. "Thunderbird. Chicago. Tomorrow night. And this—" He placed the Pearl Harbor intercepts on top. "—proof they're going to let it happen."
The room went silent.
Coleman picked up the Pearl Harbor documents, read them carefully. His face went grey. "Jesus Christ. They're really doing it. They're going to let thousands of Americans die just to—"
"Get us into the war," Catherine finished. "On terms that benefit the Prometheus Protocol architects."
Winters was reading the Thunderbird plans, her hands shaking slightly. "Chicago. Union Stock Yards. They're going to burn it. Make it look like sabotage." She looked up at Rick. "And frame you for it."
"The manhunt's already started," Rick said. "By tomorrow morning, every law enforcement officer in America will be hunting us. By tomorrow night, Chicago will be burning and we'll be the terrorists who did it."
Webb leaned back in his chair, processing it all. "Even with this evidence, even if we can prove what they're planning—who do we take it to? Morrison has assets throughout Justice, ATF, military intelligence. Anyone we approach could be compromised."
"Hartley," Rick said. "He was my father's friend. If we can reach him—"
"His house is under surveillance," Coleman interrupted. "His office too. Morrison's not taking chances."
"Then we make him come to us," Rick said. The plan was forming as he spoke. "Someone he trusts. Someone who can get a message to him without raising suspicion."
Winters nodded slowly. "His secretary. Martha Fleming. She's been with him twenty years, completely loyal. If we can reach her—"
"I can do that," Webb said. "Still have some contacts who haven't been told I'm persona non grata. I can get a message to Fleming, have her bring Hartley somewhere neutral."
"When?" Rick asked.
"Tomorrow morning. Early, before the manhunt intensifies. Before Chicago." Webb checked his watch. "Say 7 AM. The Lincoln Memorial—public, hard to seal off completely, but still relatively quiet at that hour."
It was risky. A thousand things could go wrong. But it was the best chance they had.
Coleman poured coffee, strong and black. They spent the next hours reviewing everything—evidence, timelines, contingencies. Planning for a meeting that might save thousands of lives or might be the trap that ended them all.
Around 2 AM, Catherine finally dozed off on the couch, exhausted beyond endurance. Winters found clean bandages, properly dressed her wound. "She needs a hospital," she said quietly.
"After," Rick said. "If there is an after."
Coleman sat down beside him. "Your father would be proud of you. Stubborn as hell, just like him. He never gave up either, even when he knew it was going to cost him."
"Did you know?" Rick asked. "That they'd kill him?"
"Suspected. Couldn't prove it. By the time I heard about the 'accident,' it was too late." Coleman's voice carried old guilt. "I should have protected him better."
"You're protecting me now," Rick said. "That's enough."
Outside, Washington slept uneasily. In a few hours, they'd make their move. Contact Hartley. Try to stop Thunderbird. Try to prevent Pearl Harbor.
Try to save a country that might not want to be saved.
Rick checked his father's Colt again. Seven rounds.
Tomorrow, he'd learn if that was enough.