Dawn came cold and grey over Washington. Rick stood at the window of the safe house, watching the street, counting the minutes until 7 AM.
Behind him, Coleman was checking weapons—a mix of service pistols and one Thompson submachine gun that had seen better days. Winters paced nervously, reviewing their plan for the tenth time. Webb was already gone, having left an hour ago to make final contact with Hartley's secretary.
Catherine appeared beside Rick, her arm freshly bandaged. "You don't have to do this," she said quietly. "We could run. Disappear. Let someone else fight this war."
"There is no one else," Rick said. "And nowhere far enough to run."
Reed sat at the kitchen table, looking older than his years. "I've been thinking about what happens after. If Hartley believes us, if he acts—Morrison won't just surrender. Men like him don't go quietly."
"Then we make sure he goes loud," Coleman said grimly. "Public. Where he can't make it disappear."
They left at 6:30, splitting into two vehicles. Coleman drove the truck with Rick, Catherine, and Reed. Winters followed in a nondescript Chevrolet, carrying backup documents—insurance in case the primary meeting went wrong.
The Lincoln Memorial rose white and solemn in the early morning light. Few people around at this hour—a handful of early tourists, a street sweeper, a hot dog vendor setting up for the day. The reflecting pool stretched empty and still.
Coleman parked on the periphery, where they had clear sight lines to the memorial steps. "Hartley's supposed to arrive at seven sharp. Webb will be positioned on the north side, watching for surveillance."
Rick scanned the area. Everything looked normal. Too normal. His instincts, honed by months of running, were screaming warnings.
"Something's wrong," he said.
"Everything's wrong," Catherine replied. "But we're out of options."
At 6:55, a black Lincoln pulled up to the memorial. A man got out—late fifties, grey hair, distinguished bearing. James Hartley, Deputy Director of the ATF, exactly as Rick remembered from photographs in his father's study.
Hartley climbed the memorial steps slowly, stood gazing up at Lincoln's statue. A man alone with his thoughts. Or a man waiting for contact.
"That's our signal," Coleman said. "Rick, you and Catherine go. Reed and I stay with the vehicles, ready to move fast if needed."
Rick nodded. He tucked Scott's files inside his coat, felt the weight of his father's Colt against his ribs. Seven rounds. He hoped it would be enough.
They crossed the open ground to the memorial, exposed and vulnerable. Every shadow could hide a sniper. Every parked car could contain agents. But Hartley was waiting, and this was their only chance.
Hartley turned as they approached, his face showing no surprise. "Richard Forsyth. You look like your father."
"You knew we'd come," Rick said carefully.
"Your father always said you were persistent. Stubborn, like him." Hartley's voice carried genuine sadness. "I'm sorry about what happened to him. James was a good man. A patriot."
"He was murdered," Rick said flatly. "By the same people running Prometheus Protocol. The same people orchestrating Thunderbird."
Hartley's expression didn't change. "Those are serious accusations."
"I have proof." Rick pulled out the files, handed them over. "Everything. Thunderbird. Chicago. Tonight. And this—" He placed the Pearl Harbor intercepts on top. "Proof they're going to let Pearl Harbor happen."
Hartley took the documents, read them carefully. His face remained neutral, professional. Too neutral.
Rick's warning instincts flared brighter.
"This is... disturbing," Hartley said finally. "If authentic, this represents a conspiracy at the highest levels of government."
"It's authentic," Catherine said. "We've verified the sources. Cross-referenced the intelligence. It's real."
Hartley looked at her appraisingly. "Catherine Dupré. French intelligence, if Morrison's briefings are accurate. What's your interest in American internal affairs?"
"Stopping fascism," Catherine replied coolly. "Wherever it appears. Even in democratic governments."
Hartley nodded slowly. Then he did something that made Rick's blood freeze.
He smiled.
It wasn't a warm smile. It wasn't reassuring. It was the smile of a man who'd just won a chess game his opponent didn't know they were playing.
"You're right, of course," Hartley said. "The documents are authentic. Prometheus Protocol is real. Thunderbird will proceed as planned tonight. And Pearl Harbor—well, that's already in motion, isn't it?"
Rick's hand moved toward his Colt. "You knew."
"I've known for months, Richard." Hartley's voice was almost gentle. "I helped design Prometheus Protocol. Your father came to me with his concerns, and I assured him everything was under control. Which it was. Until he kept digging."
The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity. His father hadn't been killed by Morrison's agents. He'd been killed on Hartley's orders. The man his father trusted most had been the architect of his death.
"The accident—" Rick started.
"Was no accident," Hartley confirmed. "Your father was a good man, but he lacked vision. He couldn't see that sometimes democracy requires... guidance. That the people don't always know what's best for them."
Catherine's voice was ice. "So you're going to let thousands die at Pearl Harbor to drag America into a war?"
"I'm going to save civilization," Hartley corrected. "Japan is a threat. Germany is a threat. Isolationism is suicide. Sometimes you need a Pearl Harbor to wake people up. To make them willing to do what's necessary."
"My father would never have—" Rick began.
"Your father was sentimental," Hartley interrupted. "He believed in rules, in process, in Constitutional niceties. But the world doesn't work that way anymore. The fascists understand that. The communists understand that. It's time America understood it too."
Rick's Colt was in his hand now, but Hartley didn't flinch.
"You think I came here alone?" Hartley asked. "You think Morrison would let this meeting happen without insurance?"
The trap sprang shut.
Men appeared from everywhere—behind pillars, from parked cars, emerging from the memorial itself. Dozens of them. Federal agents, ATF officers, military police. All armed. All with weapons trained on Rick and Catherine.
Morrison stepped forward from behind Lincoln's statue, his face showing quiet satisfaction. "I told Hartley you'd fall for this. That you'd trust your father's friend. Sentiment makes you predictable, Forsyth."
Down by the vehicles, Coleman and Reed were already surrounded. Winters's Chevrolet was boxed in by three black sedans. No escape routes. No options.
They'd walked straight into it.
"The manhunt was real," Morrison continued, almost conversational. "The warrants, the surveillance, the media coverage—all real. But we didn't need to catch you. We just needed to let you think you had a chance. Let you gather your evidence, contact your allies, arrange this meeting."
"Why?" Catherine demanded. "You already had us framed. Why let us get this far?"
"Loose ends," Hartley said. He was thumbing through Scott's files now, almost casually. "Rick and Catherine, we could frame. But Coleman and his little resistance group? They're harder to discredit. Active duty officers, respected agents, people with credibility. We needed them to expose themselves. To gather in one place where we could deal with all of them at once."
Morrison smiled thinly. "You did us a favor, really. By tomorrow morning, you'll all be dead—killed resisting arrest at this meeting where you planned your terrorist attack on Chicago. We'll recover these 'forged documents' you created to justify your actions. And America will have its villains."
Rick's mind raced, looking for options. There were none. They were surrounded, outgunned, outmaneuvered. Morrison and Hartley had planned every step.
"One question," Rick said, playing for time. "Scott. The scientist. Why kill him?"
"Scott was conscience-stricken," Morrison said dismissively. "Brilliant man, but weak. He designed Thunderbird's incendiaries thinking they'd be used overseas, against enemy targets. When he learned about Chicago, about using them on American soil—he became a liability."
"So you had me kill him," Reed said bitterly from where agents held him. "Used me to clean up your mess."
"You're all tools," Hartley said simply. "Useful until you're not. Your father understood that, Richard, even if he didn't want to admit it. In the end, he was just another tool that broke."
Rick's finger tightened on the Colt's trigger. Seven rounds. He could drop Hartley, maybe Morrison. But the agents would cut him down in seconds. Catherine too. And Coleman's group. All of them dead, and Prometheus Protocol would continue.
His father's last words echoed in his mind: Some things are worth dying for.
But was dying here, now, accomplishing anything? Or was that exactly what Morrison wanted—martyrs to cement the narrative, bodies to seal the story?
"You're thinking about it," Morrison observed. "Whether to go out fighting. Make it look good. But here's the thing, Forsyth—nobody's watching. No witnesses except us. We control the story. Whatever happens here, the newspapers will print what we tell them to print."
"Then why not just shoot us now?" Catherine asked.
Hartley exchanged a glance with Morrison. Some silent communication passed between them.
"Because," Hartley said slowly, "there's still a chance you could be useful. Alive."