She walked into the ATF field office at noon like she owned it.
Chestnut hair. Green eyes. Black trench coat that probably cost more than Rick's monthly salary. She moved the way people move when they're used to being watched — aware of every angle, every exit.
"Catherine Dupré," she said, showing credentials. ATF badge. Undercover division. Codename: Black Swan.
Rick had never heard of her. That meant either she was very new or very classified.
"I've been inside the Burton organization for ninety-two days," Catherine said, sitting down without being invited. "I know their operation, their suppliers, their safe houses. And I know what's happening tonight."
"The gathering," Rick said.
"It's not just a gathering." Catherine leaned forward. "They're planning to bomb the Federal Building. Midnight. Military-grade explosives. Enough to flatten the block."
Scott let out a low whistle. Rick said nothing. He was watching Catherine's hands — steady, no tremor. Her pupils — dilated slightly, but that could be the fluorescent lighting. Her breathing — controlled, even. Either she was telling the truth or she was exceptionally good at lying.
"Why come to us now?" Rick asked.
"Because they've moved up the timeline. And because..." She paused, and for the first time her composure cracked. "They killed my fiancé. Two years ago. He was ATF."
Rick recognized the look in her eyes. He saw it every morning in his own mirror. Grief that had hardened into something sharper.
"I need to get into that gathering," Rick said.
"I can get you in. But you'll have to pose as my date."
Scott objected immediately. "It's a trap. It has to be."
"Maybe," Rick said. "But four agents are dead, there's a bomb threat, and she's the only lead we have."
He looked at Catherine again. Something about her didn't quite fit — the way she'd appeared at exactly the right moment, the way she had all the answers. But the clock was ticking, and Rick had learned long ago that perfect situations don't exist. You work with what you have.
"I'm in," he said.
Catherine smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
Eight PM. Club 21 was electric.
Crystal chandeliers threw fractured light across a crowd of Washington's powerful — senators, lobbyists, and men whose names never appeared in newspapers but whose decisions shaped the country. Rick entered on Catherine's arm, wearing a borrowed suit and carrying his father's silver revolver in a shoulder holster. The engraving on the handle read "Justice Endures." Tonight, he intended to test that.
"Big Burton is downstairs," Catherine whispered. "Holding court with his political friends. Little Burton is upstairs with the explosives."
"How many guards?"
"Twelve that I've counted. More in the back rooms."
They moved through the crowd, Catherine laughing at jokes Rick didn't make, her hand on his arm projecting a casual intimacy that existed nowhere beneath the surface. Rick's photographic memory was working overtime — cataloging faces, mapping exits, counting weapons.
They reached the staircase. A guard blocked their path.
"Private area, sir."
"Mr. Burton is expecting us," Catherine said smoothly.
The guard hesitated. His hand drifted toward his holster.
Rick calculated: three seconds to neutralize, five seconds before someone noticed, eight seconds to reach the upstairs corridor. Tight, but possible.
He didn't need to. Catherine produced an invitation card — gilded, embossed with a symbol Rick didn't recognize. The guard stepped aside immediately.
They climbed the stairs. The music faded. The hallway above was quiet and dark, lined with closed doors.
"Last door on the right," Catherine said.
Rick drew his revolver. Fifteen years of waiting. Four dead colleagues. A bomb somewhere in this building. And behind that door, the men who had destroyed his family.
He kicked it open.
The room was empty.
No Little Burton. No explosives. No guards. Just an expensive Persian rug, a mahogany bar, and silence.
Rick's instincts screamed. He turned—
Catherine was pointing a gun at his chest.
"I'm sorry, Rick," she said. And her voice was different now — no warmth, no urgency. Just cold, clean precision. "But you were never going to leave this room."