Rick's blood went cold. "What?"
"Prometheus Protocol isn't just about Pearl Harbor," Morrison explained. "That's just the opening act. There's a whole war to fight, and wars need certain... assets. Intelligence operatives who can work outside official channels. People who've already proven they can operate in the grey areas."
"You want to recruit us?" Catherine's voice dripped disbelief.
"I want to give you a choice," Hartley corrected. "Die here, pointlessly, accomplishing nothing. Or live. Work for us. Help guide America through the war that's coming. Use your skills for something that actually matters."
"You murdered my father," Rick said.
"I ordered a necessary action," Hartley replied. "There's a difference. Your father's idealism would have crippled American readiness at exactly the moment we needed to be strong. His death saved thousands of lives—the lives of soldiers who'll be better prepared because Prometheus Protocol succeeded."
"That's insane," Rick breathed.
"That's reality," Morrison countered. "The world isn't a clean place, Forsyth. There are no purely good choices. Only choices that work and choices that don't. Your father chose poorly. You don't have to make the same mistake."
The agents maintained their positions, weapons ready but not firing. Waiting for orders. Waiting to see how Rick would respond to the devil's bargain.
Coleman shouted from near the vehicles: "Don't do it, Rick! Don't let them—"
A rifle butt to his head silenced him. He went down hard. Winters screamed.
"Think carefully," Hartley said. "You have about thirty seconds before I decide you're more valuable dead than alive."
Rick looked at Catherine. Her eyes were steady, unafraid. She'd known from the beginning this might be how it ended. She gave him the smallest nod—your choice, I'll follow.
He looked at Coleman, bleeding but conscious, still defiant. At Winters, terrified but not broken. At Reed, who'd already betrayed everyone and looked like he wished he'd had the courage to stay dead in Detroit.
He looked at the files in Hartley's hands—proof of conspiracy that would never see daylight now. Evidence that would be destroyed, rewritten, made to support the narrative.
Seven rounds in his Colt.
Dozens of agents with rifles.
No chance of survival.
But maybe—just maybe—a chance to do one last thing that mattered.
Rick's decision crystallized with absolute clarity.
"Mr. Hartley," he said quietly. "My father had a phrase he used. He said it the night before he died."
"Oh?" Hartley raised an eyebrow.
Rick smiled, and it felt like his father's smile. Stubborn. Defiant. Free.
"He said: 'Go to hell.'"
Then he moved.
The Colt came up fast, muscle memory from months of practice overriding thought. Rick's first shot took Hartley in the chest, the impact spinning the older man backward. The second shot went toward Morrison, but the deputy director was already diving behind Lincoln's statue.
Chaos erupted.
Federal agents opened fire from every direction. Catherine had her pistol out, firing methodically at the closest threats. Rick felt something punch into his left shoulder—hot, tearing pain—but his right hand kept the Colt steady.
Three rounds left.
From somewhere beyond the memorial, a rifle cracked. Sharp, precise. One of the agents near Coleman jerked and fell. Then another shot. Another agent down.
Webb. God bless Webb and his Marine Corps marksmanship.
"Go!" Catherine shouted, firing to cover Rick as he stumbled backward. Blood was soaking through his jacket now, warm and slick.
Down by the vehicles, Coleman was moving. Not running—fighting. He'd somehow gotten his hands on a dropped weapon and was laying down suppressing fire, giving Webb better angles, creating confusion among the agents who'd been surrounding him.
Reed stood frozen for a heartbeat, hands still bound behind his back. An agent grabbed him, tried to use him as a shield. Reed's face contorted—rage, shame, redemption all at once—and he threw himself backward with all his weight, slamming the agent into the concrete barrier.
"Rick!" Reed shouted. "Winters—trunk—Coleman's truck—"
A burst of Thompson fire cut him off. Reed's body jerked, danced with the impacts, and collapsed. But in that moment of distraction, Winters had broken free and was sprinting for Coleman's truck.
Rick fired his sixth round at an agent closing in on Catherine. Hit or miss, he couldn't tell—everything was movement and noise and the strange time-dilation of combat.
One round left.
"The reflecting pool!" Catherine grabbed his good arm, pulling him toward the long expanse of water. "Webb will cover—"
More rifle shots from Webb's position. Precise. Professional. Every shot forcing the agents to seek cover, disrupting their coordination.
Coleman was still fighting, but Rick could see him taking hits. The Marine officer's movements were getting slower, heavier. He was buying them seconds with his life.
"Coleman!" Rick tried to turn back, but Catherine's grip was iron.
"He's giving us a chance! Don't waste it!"
They reached the edge of the reflecting pool. Behind them, Coleman's Thompson had gone silent. Rick saw him on his knees now, surrounded by agents. Blood staining his uniform. But he was laughing—actually laughing—as he looked toward Rick and Catherine.
"Get the bastards for me, Captain!" Coleman's voice rang out clear. Then he lunged at the nearest agent, and the rifles barked in unison.
Rick's vision blurred—tears or blood loss, he wasn't sure. Catherine pulled him into the pool and they went under, the cold water shocking his system. She dragged him beneath the surface, swimming with strong, sure strokes toward the far end.
The water muffled the sounds of gunfire. Rick's lungs burned. His shoulder was screaming. But Catherine kept pulling, kept moving, and somehow he kept swimming.
They surfaced at the far end of the pool, gasping. Winters was there with the truck, engine running, passenger door open. Webb materialized from behind a maintenance building, his sniper rifle slung over his shoulder, pistol in hand providing covering fire.
"Move, move!" Webb barked.
Catherine half-carried, half-dragged Rick to the truck. Webb fired twice more, then dove into the truck bed as Winters hit the gas.
The truck lurched forward, tires screaming. Rick heard bullets pinging off metal, heard the rear window explode. But then they were around a corner, and another, and the Lincoln Memorial was receding behind them.
Rick collapsed against the seat, his head spinning. Catherine was already working on his shoulder, her hands sure and efficient despite the truck's wild motion.
"Through and through," she muttered. "You're lucky. Missed the bone."
"Don't feel lucky," Rick gasped.
"Coleman?" Winters's voice was tight, strained.
"Gone," Webb said from the truck bed. "Reed too. They bought us maybe thirty seconds. Used them well."
Rick closed his eyes. Coleman. Reed. Maybe others. All dead because he'd led them into Hartley's trap.
"Rick." Catherine's voice was sharp. "Stay with me. You don't get to check out now."
"Where are we going?" Winters asked. He was driving fast but controlled, taking a zigzag route through the streets.
"Not safe house one," Webb said. "They'll have that by now. Not safe house two either. We need to get out of DC entirely."
"I know a place," Catherine said, still working on Rick's shoulder. "Maryland. Eastern Shore. Fishing village. A contact from before the war—French expat, owes my service some favors. Three hours' drive if we're not followed."
"We're followed," Webb said grimly, looking back through the shattered rear window. "Black sedan, two cars back. Maybe another one further behind."
Winters swore and took a hard right, then a left. The truck shuddered with the speed. Rick felt consciousness slipping, the blood loss and shock pulling him down.
"Rick!" Catherine slapped his face, not gently. "Stay awake. I need you awake."
"Hartley," Rick mumbled. "Did I—"
"You hit him. Don't know if he's dead. Does it matter right now?"
It did matter. It mattered more than anything. But Rick couldn't quite articulate why through the fog in his head.
Webb was firing out the back now, deliberate shots at their pursuers. "Winters, we need to lose them before we hit any highway. Too exposed."
"Working on it!"
The truck careened through what looked like an industrial district. Early morning workers scattered. Winters took them through an alley barely wide enough for the vehicle, scraping paint off both sides.
When they emerged, Webb checked behind them. "Lost the first sedan. Second one's still back there."
"There's a rail yard ahead," Winters said. "If we can get through it—"
"Do it."
They crashed through a chain-link fence—apparently Winters had decided subtlety was no longer an option—and bounced over railroad tracks. A freight train was moving slowly on one of the lines. Winters gunned the engine, racing parallel to it, then cut hard right across the tracks just ahead of the locomotive.
The pursuing sedan tried to follow. Rick heard the screech of brakes, the massive impact, the train's whistle screaming. When he managed to turn his head, he saw twisted metal and steam.
"That's one," Webb said with grim satisfaction.
They drove for another twenty minutes, Winters taking random turns, doubling back, using every evasion technique he knew. Finally, when they were clear of the city and onto rural roads, Webb called out: "I think we're clean."
Winters didn't slow down. "We stay clean. No stops until we hit Maryland."
Rick's consciousness was fading again. Catherine had bandaged his shoulder as best she could in the moving truck, but he'd lost a lot of blood. He could feel it.
"Rick." Catherine's face swam into focus. She looked worried, which was unusual for her. "Stay with me. We need you. I need you."
"Coleman," Rick said. "Reed. They—"
"They made their choices. Brave choices. Don't dishonor them by dying now."
"Hartley's still out there."
"I know."
"Prometheus Protocol. Pearl Harbor. We failed."
Catherine's jaw tightened. "We failed today. That doesn't mean we've lost."
"How do we—" Rick's words slurred. The truck was spinning, or maybe that was just his vision. "Can't stop them. Too powerful. Father was right. System's too broken."
"Your father was also stubborn. Like you. He didn't quit." She gripped his good shoulder. "You don't get to quit either."
"Tired," Rick mumbled.
"I know. Sleep now. But wake up. Promise me you'll wake up."
Rick wanted to promise, but the darkness was pulling him down. The last thing he heard was Webb's voice from the back: "How bad is he?"
"Bad enough. We need to get him to that doctor fast."
Then nothing.