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responding,” Logan reported.
    Painter shook his head, but a cold certainty iced through him. “Tell base security to stay away. Have them evacuate anyone near that building.”
    “Sir?”
    “Do it.”
    5:14 A . M .
FREDERICK, MARYLAND
    G RAY SCANNED the roof one more time. The emergency Klaxon continued to wail. He ignored it, drawing inward. He had to think like his quarry.
    He crouched low. It had rained last night. He imagined the woman had only planted the vials recently, after the downpour. He looked carefully and noted where the sand washed smooth by the rain had been disturbed. It wasn’t too difficult, as he knew she had to have passed through this door. It was the only roof access.
    He trailed her steps.
    They led across the roof to a hooded exhaust vent.
    Of course.
    The exhaust flume would serve as the perfect chimney to expel the spores as the lower levels of the building imploded, creating a toxic blowgun.
    Kneeling, he spotted where she had tampered with the hood, disturbing an old layer of rust. He didn’t have the time to check for booby traps. He yanked the vent off with a grunt.
    The bomb rested inside the duct. The fifteen glass vials were arrayed in a starburst around a central pellet of C4, just enough to shatter the containers. He stared at the white powder filling each tube. Biting his lower lip, he reached down and carefully lifted the bomb out of the duct’s throat. A timer counted down.
    00:54.
    00:53.
    00:52.
    Free of the ductwork, Gray straightened. He did a fast check of the bomb. It was rigged against tampering. He had no time to decipher the wires and electronics. The bomb was going to go off. He had to get it away from the building, away from the blast zone, preferably away from him.
    00:41.
    Only one chance.
    He tucked the bomb into a nylon ditty pouch over one shoulder and stalked to the front of the building. Headlights aimed toward the building, drawn by the alarm. Base security would never reach here in time.
    He had no choice.
    He had to get clear…no matter his own life.
    Retreating several steps from roof’s edge, he took a deep breath, then sprinted back toward the front of the building. Reaching the roof’s edge, he bounded up and leaped over the brick parapet.
    He sailed out over the six-story drop.
    5:15 A . M .
WASHINGTON, D.C.
    C HRIST ALMIGHTY!” Logan exclaimed as Grayson made the leap off the roof.
    “He’s numb-nuts crazy,” the tech appended, jerking to his feet.
    Painter simply watched the man’s suicidal ploy. “He’s doing what he must.”
    5:15 A . M .
FREDERICK, MARYLAND
    G RAY KEPT his legs under him, arms out for balance. He plummeted earthward. He prayed the laws of physics, velocity, trajectory, and vector analysis didn’t betray him.
    He readied for the impact.
    Two stories below and twenty yards out, the spherical roof of the Eight Ball rose up to meet him. The million-liter steel containment globe glistened with morning dew.
    He twisted in midair, struggling to keep his plunge feet-first.
    Then time sped up. Or he did.
    His booted feet hit the surface of the sphere. The liquid body armor cemented around his ankles, protecting against a break. Momentum slammed him forward, facedown, spread-eagled. But he had not reached the center of the sphere’s roof, only the curved shell closest to Building 470.
    Fingers scrabbled, but there was no grip, no traction.
    His body slid down the dew-slick steel, twisting slightly askew. He spread his legs, toes dragging for friction. Then he was past the point of no return, free-falling down the sheer side.
    With his cheek pressed to the steel, he didn’t see the catwalk until he struck it. His left leg hit, then his body tumbled after it. He landed on hands and knees atop the metal scaffolding that had been built around the equator of the steel globe. He shoved to his feet, legs wobbling from the strain and the terror.
    He couldn’t believe he was still alive.
    He searched the curve of the sphere while freeing