Rick was pinned down behind a marble pillar, four security officers advancing on his position. He'd drawn them away from the study, but now he was trapped with limited ammunition and no exit strategy.
He fired twice more, driving them back, then sprinted for the main stairs. If he could reach the first floor, the service areas, he might lose them in the confusion.
A bullet cracked past his head. Too close. They were getting better positions, boxing him in.
Rick reached the stairs and descended three at a time. Behind him, footsteps pounding. Ahead, more security emerging from the ground floor.
He was surrounded.
Then the fire alarm went off.
Sprinklers activated throughout the estate. Within seconds, elegant antiques and priceless carpets were soaked. The surprise bought Rick two seconds—enough to slip into a side corridor while security dealt with the chaos.
He found Webb, Catherine, and Donovan in the service area near the kitchen.
"You set off the fire alarm?" Rick asked.
"Seemed like a good distraction," Webb said. "Van's outside. Thirty seconds."
They moved through the kitchen—now empty, staff evacuated—toward the delivery entrance. Outside, the catering van was idling, back doors open.
They ran.
Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
Gunfire erupted behind them. Rick felt something tug at his jacket but didn't stop. They dove into the van, Webb already in the driver's seat.
The van lurched forward, tires screaming. Bullets punched through the side panels. Catherine was shooting back through the broken window, keeping security from pursuing effectively.
They crashed through the service gate—unguarded, everyone responding to the main house chaos—and onto the private road.
"Anyone hit?" Webb demanded.
"I'm good," Catherine said.
"Fine," Rick confirmed, though his jacket had a bullet hole and his arm was bleeding. Grazed, not serious.
"I think I'm okay," Donovan said, checking himself. "Can't believe we're alive."
"We're not out yet." Webb was driving like a demon, the van protesting every turn. "They'll have vehicles in pursuit within minutes. We need to reach the rally point, switch to the extraction vehicle Reeves positioned."
"The recording?" Rick asked.
Donovan held up the book. "Got it. Two hours of Hartley and his people discussing everything. The sabotage, Phase 2, post-war planning. It's all here."
"Then this wasn't for nothing." Catherine reloaded her pistol with shaking hands. "We have proof."
Behind them, sirens. Security vehicles giving chase.
Webb pushed the van harder, taking side roads, trying to lose them in rural Virginia backroads. The van wasn't built for this—it was shaking apart, smoke pouring from the engine.
"She's not going to make it," Webb said. "Engine's dying."
"How far to the rally point?"
"Two miles. Maybe."
The van's engine coughed, sputtered, died. Webb coasted to the shoulder of a dirt road surrounded by woods.
"Out. We run from here."
They abandoned the van and plunged into the forest. Behind them, sirens getting closer. Security would find the van within minutes, then track them on foot.
But two miles through woods they'd scouted, to a rally point where David waited with a radio and an extraction vehicle, was manageable.
If they moved fast.
If security didn't catch them first.
If their luck held just a little longer.
Rally Point - 1230 Hours
David had heard the gunfire from three miles away. Now he watched through binoculars as the catering van limped down the road, smoke trailing.
"Shepherd to Flock," he said into the radio. "They're coming. Advise status."
"Shepherd here. Security in pursuit. Multiple vehicles. I'm repositioning extraction assets to alternate rally point Bravo. Redirect if possible."
"Understood."
David saw the van die. Saw four figures emerge and run into the woods. Saw security vehicles arrive at the van thirty seconds later.
He started the car and drove to rally point Bravo—an abandoned farm two miles west. The fallback position.
If they made it.
Woods - 1245 Hours
Rick's lungs burned. His arm throbbed where the bullet had grazed him. Behind them, dogs barking. Security had brought tracking dogs.
They ran through dense Virginia forest, staying off paths, moving as fast as exhaustion allowed. Donovan was struggling, civilian-soft, not trained for this. Catherine and Webb were fading. Even Rick, who'd maintained some conditioning, was reaching his limits.
"How far?" Donovan gasped.
"One mile. Maybe less." Rick checked their back trail. "But they're gaining."
They couldn't outrun dogs. Couldn't fight off a full security team with three pistols and limited ammunition. Couldn't—
A truck engine roared to life ahead of them.
They burst from the tree line to find an old farm truck, David at the wheel.
"Get in!"
They piled into the truck bed. David floored it, the ancient vehicle protesting but moving.
Behind them, security emerged from the woods. Gunfire cracked. Bullets punched through the truck's tailgate.
Rick returned fire, trying to slow pursuit. They had maybe a thirty-second lead, but the truck was old and slow.
Security vehicles would catch them within minutes.
Then another truck appeared—military transport, unmarked. It swung across the road behind them, blocking pursuit.
"Reeves," Catherine said. "Has to be."
The military truck's driver—Rick couldn't see his face—held position while they escaped. Buying them precious minutes.
David drove for twenty minutes on increasingly small roads before finally stopping at another abandoned farm. An nondescript sedan waited—the real extraction vehicle.
They transferred quickly. David drove this time, heading north toward DC on back roads.
In the back seat, Donovan cradled the book with the wire recorder. "We did it. We actually got the recording."
"We got a recording," Catherine corrected. "Now we have to get it to Eleanor Walsh, verify it recorded properly, make sure it can be duplicated and distributed before Hartley's people find us."
"Where do we go?" Webb asked.
"DC. Eleanor's expecting us. She has a studio—we can review the recording, make copies, prepare for release." Rick checked their back trail. No pursuit visible, but that didn't mean much. "But we can't stay together. Too easy to track four people traveling in a group."
"Split up at the DC outskirts," Catherine decided. "Rick and Donovan take the recording to Eleanor. Webb and David, head to separate safe houses, monitor for security response. I'll activate the backup network—get everything ready for simultaneous release to multiple outlets."
"And if they find us before we can release it?" Donovan asked.
"Then the dead man's switches activate automatically. Sarah Brennan mails her package. Eleanor publishes what she already has. Crawford testifies." Catherine looked at each of them. "One way or another, the truth gets out. That was always the plan."
They drove in silence for a while, adrenaline fading, exhaustion and pain setting in.
Rick looked at his companions. Donovan, bleeding and terrified but still clutching the recording. Catherine, her face swollen from the security officer's blow. Webb, hands shaking from stress and alcohol withdrawal. David, barely holding together, tremors constant.
Four years since Pearl Harbor. Three years living as dead people. And now, finally, they had what they'd been hunting.
"Morrison would be proud," Rick said quietly.
Catherine almost smiled. "Morrison would say we were reckless and lucky and should have planned better."
"That too."
Washington DC - 1800 Hours
Eleanor Walsh's studio was in a run-down building in a neighborhood polite people avoided. Perfect for what they needed—privacy, discretion, no questions asked.
Rick and Donovan arrived first. Eleanor was exactly as Catherine had described her—forties, sharp-eyed, carrying the cynicism of a journalist who'd been burned too many times but couldn't quit.
"You have it?" she asked without preamble.
Donovan set the book on the table. "Two hours. Hartley, Brennan, military officials, foreign representatives. Phase 1 assessment, post-war institutional planning, Phase 2 Korea timeline. Everything."
Eleanor pulled out recording equipment—better than anything OSS had. "Let's see if it's usable."
They played the wire. The quality was rough—German technology, magnetic wire, prone to distortion. But the voices were clear enough. Hartley's voice, distinctive, discussing equipment sabotage. Casualty figures. Profit margins. Post-war planning. The corruption of institutions that hadn't even been formally established yet.
Eleanor listened to two minutes, then stopped the playback. "This is—Jesus Christ. This is bigger than Teapot Dome. Bigger than anything I've ever seen."
"Can you publish it?" Rick asked.
"Publish it? I can end careers with this. Spark Congressional investigations. Maybe prevent the institutions they're planning from being corrupted." Eleanor's eyes were bright with the fever of a journalist who'd found the story of a lifetime. "But I'll need corroboration. Supporting evidence. This is huge—editors will want more than just a recording."
"We have supporting evidence. Three years' worth." Rick pulled out the coded files he'd been carrying. "Production records, financial trails, procurement documentation. Everything needed to verify what's on that recording."
"How long to prepare for publication?"
"Forty-eight hours. Maybe less. I have contacts at three major newspapers willing to publish simultaneously. Congressional sources ready to launch investigations. But I need clean copies of this recording, transcripts, the supporting evidence organized."
"You have forty-eight hours." Rick stood. "After that, Hartley's people will find us. We need this public before we're silenced."
Eleanor was already setting up copying equipment. "I'll work through the night. Come back tomorrow evening—I'll have copies ready for distribution, story written, everything prepared."
Rick and Donovan left through the back entrance. On the street, they separated—Donovan heading to a safe house Reeves had arranged, Rick to a different location Catherine had secured months ago.
Before splitting up, Donovan grabbed Rick's arm.
"If I don't see you again—I mean, if this goes wrong—I want you to know it was worth it. Getting that recording. Maybe dying for it, if it comes to that. Morrison was worth it."
"You're not going to die, Donovan. You're going to survive, watch Hartley go down, and spend the rest of your life with a story nobody will ever believe."
"Or join the CIA in 1947 when they form it, and spend my career trying to stop them from becoming what Hartley wanted."
Rick smiled grimly. "That too. Good luck."
They shook hands and disappeared into the DC evening, two more shadows in a city full of secrets.