The Potomac River was covered in a thick, suffocating fog.
A small seaplane—the shuttle from the Icarus—glided silently onto the water, its engines cut. It drifted toward the muddy bank near the Lincoln Memorial.
Jason stepped out onto the pontoon. He wasn't wearing his desert fatigues or his pilot's jacket. He wore a tailored pinstripe suit, a silk tie, and a fedora. He looked like a lobbyist, or a corrupt senator.
Sarah climbed out behind him. She wore a flapper dress under a heavy coat, her hair tucked into a cloche hat. O'Malley brought up the rear, looking uncomfortable in a tuxedo that struggled to contain his shoulders (and his concealed pistols).
"Washington feels... dead," Sarah whispered, looking at the city lights.
She was right. There was no traffic noise. No music from the jazz clubs. The streetlights flickered in an odd, rhythmic pattern.
Short-short-long. Short-long-short.
"Morse code?" O'Malley asked.
"Data packets," Jason corrected. "The city grid is part of the network now."
They climbed the bank and walked toward the National Mall.
The few people on the street walked with a strange, synchronized gait. They didn't talk. They didn't look at the monuments. They stared straight ahead, moving with mechanical purpose.
"Processors," Jason murmured. "The infection has spread from the docks to the sidewalks."
"We need to get to the Capitol," Sarah said, checking her watch. "The Judiciary Committee hearing starts in twenty minutes. If Senator Sterling votes yes on the 'National Defense Information Act,' Gates gets legal ownership of every telephone line in America."
"Let's go stop a law," Jason said.
The Capitol Building was packed.
Reporters, lobbyists, and military attachés filled the gallery of the Senate chamber. Flashbulbs popped like distant lightning.
Jason, Sarah, and O'Malley slipped into the back row.
Down on the floor, the committee was in session.
Senator James Sterling sat at the center of the dais. He was a silver-haired patrician, the image of American authority.
But something was wrong.
He sat too still. He didn't shuffle his papers. He didn't whisper to his aides. He stared straight ahead, unblinking, like a statue carved from wax.
"Check him," Jason whispered to Sarah.
Sarah pulled a small compact mirror from her purse. She angled it to catch the light from the chandeliers, flashing a beam directly into the Senator's eyes.
Sterling didn't flinch. His pupils didn't contract. They remained wide, black discs.
"He's turned," Sarah whispered, horrified. "Dilated pupils. No reaction to light. He's a Hollow Man."
"The Chairman of the Judiciary Committee is a robot," O'Malley grunted. "Great."
Sterling leaned into the microphone.
"Order," he said. His voice was monotone, amplified by the speakers. "The Committee will now vote on the Defense Act. Efficiency is the bedrock of liberty. We must integrate."
"Wait!"
A man stood up from the minority bench. He wore a rumpled white suit and had a face red with fury.
Huey Long. The Kingfish. The populist firebrand from Louisiana.
"This bill is treason!" Long shouted, pointing a finger at Sterling. "You are handing the keys of the kingdom to a corporation! You are selling the American voice to a machine!"
The crowd murmured. Flashbulbs exploded.
Sterling didn't argue. He didn't bang his gavel.
He just turned his head slowly to look at Long.
A low hum began to fill the room. It wasn't coming from the speakers. It was coming from Sterling. A vibration that rattled teeth.
Huey Long stopped shouting. He grabbed his head.
"My... my eyes!" Long gasped.
Blood began to trickle from his nose. He staggered, clutching the desk.
"Infrasound," Jason realized. "Or a targeted signal. The Focus Protocol isn't just mind control. It's a weapon."
Long's knees buckled. He collapsed onto the Senate floor, seizing.
"They're killing him," Sarah said. "He's the only opposition left. If he dies, the bill passes."
Jason stood up.
"O'Malley. Fire alarm."
"With pleasure."
O'Malley pulled a cigar from his pocket, lit it, and jammed it into the trash can filled with paper towels next to them. Then he smashed the glass on the emergency box.
CLANG-CLANG-CLANG.
The bells rang out. Smoke began to rise.
Panic.
The gallery erupted. People screamed and rushed the exits.
"Move!" Jason ordered.
They jumped over the railing onto the Senate floor. Jason grabbed the unconscious Huey Long by the collar.
"You're heavy for a populist," Jason grunted, hauling him up.
"Security!" Sterling droned from the dais. He didn't move. He just issued the command.
Four Capitol Police officers blocked the main doors. They drew their revolvers in unison. Their eyes were black voids.
"Side exit!" Sarah yelled. "To the subway tunnels!"
They dragged Long down the marble stairs, into the basement.
The Capitol subway system—a small monorail connecting the buildings—was silent. The tunnel was dark.
"Which way?" O'Malley asked, his gun drawn.
"Library of Congress," Jason said. "The tunnel connects."
Footsteps echoed behind them. Rhythmic. synchronized.
They looked back.
Twelve police officers were marching down the tunnel. They weren't running. They were walking fast, perfectly in step. A phalanx of mindless law enforcement.
"We can't fight them all," O'Malley said. "I have two magazines left."
Suddenly, a hidden door in the tunnel wall swung open.
A hand reached out.
"In here!" a voice hissed. "Before they see you!"
Jason hesitated. The figure was in shadow.
"Who are you?"
The man stepped forward into the dim light. He was short, with a bulldog jaw and paranoid eyes. He held a sawed-off shotgun.
J. Edgar Hoover.
The Director of the Bureau of Investigation. The man who had bombed Jason's ranch in New Mexico.
"I should arrest you, Prentice," Hoover spat. "But right now, you're the only one in this city who isn't plugged in."
The marching footsteps grew louder.
"Get in!" Hoover ordered.
Jason dragged Long into the room. Sarah and O'Malley followed.
Hoover slammed the heavy steel door and spun the lock wheel.
CLANG.
The safe room was small, lined with filing cabinets and smelling of stale coffee.
Hoover turned to face them. He kept the shotgun leveled at Jason's chest.
"Welcome to the bunker," Hoover said. "The Bureau is compromised. My agents are turning into zombies. The President is... unavailable."
"Dead?" Jason asked.
"Worse," Hoover said grimly. "Optimized."
He lowered the gun slightly.
"Tell me, Prentice. How do we kill a ghost?"
Jason looked at the sweating, terrified face of America's top cop.
"We don't kill him," Jason said. "We crash him."