Special Agent Lisa Martinez arrived at the Hyatt Place forty-five minutes after Officer Smith White stopped breathing.
The local police had already secured the scene, had already documented the body, had already begun collecting witness statements from traumatized guests. The breakfast room was now a crime scene—evidence markers placed around blood spatter, photographs taken from multiple angles, the chair where White had fallen still overturned on the floor.
Martinez was forty-two years old and had been with the FBI for sixteen years. She'd worked white collar crime, organized crime, and now domestic terrorism. She had the kind of face that suggested she'd seen too much and expected to see more. Her suit was expensive and slightly wrinkled—she'd been pulled from a hotel in Salt Lake City where she'd been on a case about cryptocurrency fraud.
"Officer White," the local police captain was saying, "was a decorated officer. Eighteen years. Family man. He saw the threat and moved to intercept."
"And the shooter?" Martinez asked.
"Gone. Three witnesses saw him head toward the connecting corridor to the Marriott. We've got patrol officers checking the parking lot, but he had at least a five-minute head start."
Martinez walked around the breakfast room, looking at the space from the killer's perspective. The distance from the coffee station to James Patterson's table was maybe thirty feet. James had been sitting with a woman—the captain called her Sarah Martinez, no relation—and they were positioned near the window. Escape route was obvious: side exit to lobby, then parking lot.
The shooter had come prepared. Had known the layout. Had waited for the right moment.
"I need to talk to James Patterson," Martinez said.
By the time Martinez arrived at the holding room, James had already been briefed on his rights and told to expect federal agents.
Martinez sat down across from him and studied his face. James Patterson looked hollowed out. Like someone who'd been carrying a weight for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to stand upright.
"I'm Special Agent Lisa Martinez," she said. "I've been assigned to this case. I need you to tell me everything about Ken Blake."
James told her. He told her about graduate school, about Blake's research, about the data falsification. He told her about the lawsuit and the defamation case and Blake's harassment of Emily. He told her about Blake's prison sentence.
Martinez listened and took notes. When James finished, she asked: "How did he know where you were?"
"I don't know," James said. "I don't know how he found me. I didn't even know he was out of prison."
"When was he released?"
"I don't know. Some time ago. Maybe six months? A year? I didn't keep track."
Martinez made a note to contact the Pennsylvania Department of Corrections. She needed Blake's release date, his parole officer, his known associates.
"What about the woman?" Martinez asked. "Sarah Martinez?"
"She's not my wife," James said quickly. "She's a friend. We've been traveling together. She doesn't have anything to do with Blake. She was just... there."
"In the wrong place at the wrong time," Martinez said.
"Yes."
Martinez stood up. "I'm going to need more detailed information about Blake. Everything you remember about him—family, friends, places he frequented, anything that might help us locate him."
"Okay," James said.
"And Mr. Patterson?" Martinez added. "You need to understand something. This man just killed a police officer. He's now a fugitive with nothing to lose. He's also fixated on you. That makes you either a dead man or the bait we use to catch him."
James absorbed this. He'd known Blake was dangerous—that had been clear in the breakfast room. But hearing it stated so directly, so flatly, made it real in a way that hadn't been real before.
"What do I do?" James asked.
"You stay alive," Martinez said. "And you help me figure out how to find him."
By 2 PM, the FBI had established a command center in the Provo police station.
Blake's rental car had been found abandoned at a rest stop forty miles east on I-80. Inside were maps, a thermos, and surveillance photographs of James Patterson taken over a period of weeks. The handwriting in the margins of the maps showed planning, obsession, the careful notation of times and places.
This wasn't a crime of passion. This was a crime of intention.
Martinez's team began pulling Blake's prison records. They discovered he'd been released six months ago on early parole after serving eleven years for armed robbery and harassment. His parole officer—a woman named Teresa Williams—had flagged him as low-risk, compliant, recently employed in a legitimate job in Philadelphia.
"Find this parole officer," Martinez instructed. "I want to know if she had any concerns. I want to know if Blake ever mentioned his target."
One of Martinez's agents—a young man named Chen—pulled Blake's employment records and found something interesting: Blake had been working for a company called Vincent's Asset Management in Philadelphia. The company had no legitimate business address, no online presence, no public information available.
"This is a front," Chen said. "I'm running it through the system now."
What came back was fragmentary but suggestive: Vincent's Asset Management was suspected of being involved in organized theft, identity fraud, money laundering. The FBI had been watching them for two years but hadn't built a case solid enough to move on.
"So Blake's not just a killer," Martinez said. "He's connected to a criminal organization."
This changed things. This meant Blake had resources. This meant Blake had help. This meant finding him was going to be more complicated than hunting a lone killer.
Sarah was released at 3 PM with instructions not to leave the state.
She walked out of the police station into the afternoon sunlight looking hollowed out, her hands still shaking slightly. She'd been in the breakfast room. She'd seen Officer White die. She'd watched James recognize something in Blake's face that suggested their entire encounter had been planned.
She called James but he was still in FBI questioning. She called David to let Marcus know what had happened. She stood in the parking lot of the Provo police station and realized she was truly alone.
A thought occurred to her: they could leave. She still had the SUV keys. She could drive to California, find Marcus and David, escape into a life where Ken Blake didn't exist.
But then she thought about James, still in that holding room, explaining to federal agents why a man he'd wronged eight years ago had tracked him across the country to kill him.
She got in the car and drove back to the Hyatt. She'd wait for James. They would figure out what came next together.
By 6 PM, Martinez had enough information to file a federal warrant for Blake's arrest.
Charged with: murder of a police officer, conspiracy to commit murder, crossing state lines to commit violence, and related federal offenses.
Blake's photograph was circulated through the national system. His license plate was flagged. His known associates were being contacted.
The manhunt had officially begun.
And somewhere on I-80, heading east into the darkness, Blake listened to his radio and understood that he'd crossed a line from which there was no returning. He was now a federal fugitive. He was now the most wanted man in a three-state region.
But he was also still alive. Still free. Still capable of finishing what he'd started.
Blake drove into the night, knowing that the real hunt was just beginning.