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room around her waist.
    Garcia had set a goal to make at least one friend outside her law enforcement circle. She’d have to hurry if she wanted to share a coffee with Jane Clayton.
    Eight minutes later Ronnie walked quickly past the Manchu Wok and the Sbarro Pizza, weaving in and out of scattered tables of late-lunch diners. Tables of “heritage speakers”—second-generation citizens, each having passed the stringent background requirements of the CIA—sat in small, ethnocentric groups scattered throughout the food court. Ronnie said hello in Spanish to three dark-skinned girls she knew from the Cuban Desk and smiled at a round table of Sudanese women chattering in Arabic under black hijab headscarves. She kept an eye open for Jane Clayton and thought idly about how young everyone was at the CIA. It reminded her more of a college campus than a hard-nosed intelligence agency.
    With no sign of Clayton in the crowd, Ronnie gave up and stopped at the Starbucks to order a tall Americano. When she’d first joined the uniformed ranks of the Agency, it had come as a surprise that Starbucks had found its way into the nation’s clandestine stronghold.
    She smiled at Martha Newman, who worked alone behind the counter.
    Newman was a kindly granny of a woman with a blue-gray sweater to match her hair and a face that held a map of lines as enigmatic as the Kryptos sculpture outside CIA Headquarters. According to Agency legend, Ms. Martha had ridden a motorcycle through South America with her arms wrapped around Che Guevara and had, on more than one occasion, shared a bed with Fidel Castro. When asked, Martha would only smile and utter a few romantic Spanish phrases about her heart.
    Martha spoke to her patrons in any of several languages. She seemed to particularly enjoy speaking thick, guttural Russian to Ronnie, who was obviously Hispanic.
    â€œ Dobry den , Veronica ,” she said, ringing up the coffee.
    â€œAnd a good afternoon to you, Ms. Martha.” Ronnie pushed aside the radio on her belt to fish a ten out of her hip pocket.
    â€œGot a date tonight?” Martha asked, counting out Ronnie’s change.
    â€œYou never forget anything, do you?” Ronnie grinned. She picked up her cup and focused on the old woman’s sparkling eyes. “They should have kept you in the Clandestine Service.”
    â€œThat’s the truth.” The old woman narrowed steely eyes. “ If I had ever been—”
    A sharp crack, like a backfiring car, echoed around the corner column where the food court made an L turn beyond the sandwich shop next to Starbucks.
    A gunshot.
    Ronnie crouched instinctively at the sound. Her hand dropped to the butt of her Glock.
    Martha Newman’s long face tensed in the hypersensitive way of someone who’d experienced violence firsthand. “Browning Hi Power,” she whispered.
    A series of five more pops came in quick succession followed by a pitiful mix of bewildered shouts and terrified screams.
    â€œYep, Hi Power,” Martha muttered grimly, confirming her first assessment. “I count two shooters,” she said. “One at the other exit off the main dining area with some kind of forty-five. The closer one has the Browning.” Her head snapped around to stare at Ronnie. “Go on, girl. Call yourself some backup.”
    Glock in hand, Ronnie moved in a half crouch toward the staccato crack of gunfire. Going toward the danger area was standard procedure with an active shooter. She kept her eyes on the corner support column, listening to the shots and a rising tide of frantic wails. Weapon tight against her side, she reached with her left hand to key the radio mike clipped to her shoulder.
    â€œThirty-six to dispatch,” she whispered, certain the shooters could hear her pounding heart.
    â€œThirty-six.”
    Ronnie willed her breath to slow. “I have at least two active shooters in the food court. Number One—somewhere