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I’m looking at Clint Cross.
* * *
Why areClint Cross’s burned remains outside the driver’s door of Brennan’s SUV?
Where is Henry? Where is Brennan?
My stomach is churning, bile and despair clawing up my throat. I’ve got Sheridan’s phone in front of me, and I’m poring over the photos he took at Clint’s apartment. What did I miss? What didn’t I see?
Clint’s library. His extremist books. His photo of Brennan. The receipt from the gun range. His gamer’s nest. Those video games: the genesis of his violent fantasies, or a symptom? His PlayStation—
I stop midswipe. Clint’s PlayStation fills the screen.
What if something crawled up the pipe and slid into his PlayStation?
I swipe past Clint’s saved games, past his screen grabs of victories and kill shots. Sheridan took photos of everything, logged every screen. He’s so good.
No, he’s a fucking traitor.
Finally, I find Clint’s online contacts. There are three: BulletEater. Sl4ught3r3r. And LoneGunman.
There are two entries for chat logs, one with BulletEater and one with LoneGunman. BulletEater’s chat is trash-talking back and forth, insults like “noob, eat shit,”and“you got pwned,”going back for months.
The contents of LoneGunman’s chat log have been deleted.
I know in my bones that LoneGunman is a Secret Service agent.
I parked our SUV in Anatoly’s garage so it wouldn’t be spotted, and I’d cry at the irony of a Secret Service vehicle in a Russian safe house if it weren’t for Anatoly being the only reason I’m not in handcuffs. Part of me is shocked that it’s still right where I left it, the engine ticking as it cools. I’m not sure what I expected: a team of Russians to have already torn it apart, stripped it down to the bolts?
The spare suit Sheridan grabbed from Henry’s is in the back seat, and I shake out his navy pants and baby blue shirt. The jacket is wrapped around something, and when I tug on it, Henry’s destroyed PlayStation tumbles onto the seat.
“Anatoly!” I shout, running back into the kitchen. “I need a screwdriver!”
He must think I’ve lost my mind. He doesn’t say anything as I unscrew the casing and tear out Henry’s hard drive.
Whoever smashed the system didn’t go far enough. The drive is still intact.
“I need your laptop, Anatoly. I need to rip the data from this.”
We may be helping each other, but asking to use his laptop is clearly a bridge too far. He balks. “What are you looking for on this… thing?”
“Usernames. Chat logs.”
“Reese—”
“Mon Dieu, I don’t want your fucking secrets. I don’t care right now about you, or the FSB, or even Russia. I need to scan this fucking drive. Either let me use your laptop or get me another computer I can use, but make it fast.”
I watch him weigh the decision. Finally, he spins his laptop across the kitchen table to me. Before he can change his mind, I plug the hard drive in and open a command screen.
It only takes a few minutes to break into the PlayStation’s subsystems. Lines of code appear. I scroll through pages of data, bloated operating systems and saved game files and system updates. Where is it? Where the fuck is it?
Finally. System Users. There are two folders.
Anatoly reads over my shoulder. “USMC1994…”
That must be Sheridan. He was born in 1994.
“And… BodyguardMyBeer?” Anatoly gives me a look.
