Special Agent Regan's fury raged, and she made sure that every person who reported to her about this debacle knew it. Special Agent Casper, in charge of the team that retrieved Michaela from the apartment, stood in front of her reporting his initial findings. An average height, slightly built, non-descript man spoke with a soft voice.

“So what happened?” Regan yelled.

“Ma'am, while the victim and her family reunited after the rescue, a lone gunman fired a single shot from a weapon, likely a rifle, striking Mr. Knight in the chest. We haven't yet recovered the bullet, but we do know that it didn't penetrate Mr. Knight's body,” reported Casper.

“What? Why is that?” asked Regan with genuine surprise.

“Knight wore Type III-A ballistic armor under his shirt and jacket, ma'am,” answered Casper.

“Body armor?” Regan asked incredulously.

“Yes ma'am,” said Casper.

“What's his condition?” she asked.

“Early report: good condition, treated for bruising in the upper chest. The armor made us suspect the gunman used a .22 rifle. The vest kept him alive. The shot would have hit him directly in the heart.”

“Well, at least we caught one break. Does he say why he wore it?” Regan responded incredulously.

“No ma'am,” Casper answered. “He insists on speaking directly to you about it.”

“I'll bet he does,” said Regan ruefully. “What about the sedan? How did that get through?”

“It arrived at the same time the shooter fired the weapon. Everyone's attention focused on the gunman and Mr. Knight, so no one had time to question the newcomers.

“When we noticed Mr. Knight hit, someone apparently called out, 'Get them in a car.' I have two officers and one agent who report hearing that, but they don't agree on where it came from. Two men dressed in standard bureau issue approached Michaela Knight and Elizabeth Kohn, forcing them bodily into the sedan. My best guess: the order came from one of the two suspects.

“Descriptions of the two men: white, male, Caucasian, one approximately 5'10”,170-180 lbs.; the other about 5'9”, 175-185 lbs., both black hair, both wearing sunglasses, blue jackets, and black pants. No distinguishing marks, scars, etc. I put out an APB with that description and a description of the sedan,” Casper concluded.

Two local TV news trucks from two different stations arrived at the scene simultaneously. Other reporters carrying notebooks and hand-held recorders called out questions from the police line at the sidewalk to everyone they saw, but no one answered. One broke through and came rushing over to where Regan stood.

“Are you in command here?” he demanded.

“Control the scene, Casper. Get this man out of here,” she said to another officer standing nearby, indicating the reporter. The police officer grabbed him and pulled him back toward the police line.

“You're up next, lieutenant,” Regan indicated to a stocky man in plain clothes standing a few feet away with a police ID hanging around his neck.

“Ma'am,” came Casper's reply before he strode quickly away, while the lieutenant stepped forward.

“And you are?” she began after the two men exchanged places.

“Lieutenant Harold Wilson, ma'am, first precinct.”

“Report, Wilson.”

Before Wilson could begin, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned, and in a 10-second rapid stream the reporter fired out, “Shandra Howard, TV9 news. You must be Special Agent Regan. They said you're in charge here. What's going on here, Regan? We have eyewitness reports of a shooting, and someone says that the victim was a top officer at Hanover-Rush. What can you tell us about what's going on?”

“You two! Officers!” Regan screamed. “Get these news people out of here. Secure that line!”

Two more uniformed men grabbed the reporter and cameraman to lead them back to the police line. More police moved in to shore up the perimeter. After some shoving and pushing, they restored order–for the moment.

Regan turned her attention to Wilson, who said, “Yes, ma'am. Based on reports from officers and agents on the scene, we're about 90% certain that the lone shot came from that building across and down the street, probably on the second or third floor,” he said as he pointed. “Half a dozen officers converged on the location within minutes of the shooting, but we found no evidence inside of a shooter. No one spotted anyone carrying a rifle. We found no empty cartridges. We found windows open in a number of rooms. Witnesses inside the building reported hearing a loud noise, but reports conflict as to which apartment or suite it might have come from. We conducted a top floor to basement search of the building, but we don't have anything yet.”

“Tell them to search it again,” Regan yelled.

“Yes, ma'am,” Wilson replied.

Another interruption came as one of her team pushed in and said, “Sorry, ma'am, but someone's going to need to make a statement to the press. They're piling up faster than a snow drift in a storm after a plow.”

“You came up with that all by yourself, didn’t you Jenkins?”

“It’s an expression.”

“No it’s not. Don’t just stand there,” Regan barked. “Call the bureau. Have them send a press spokesman over here, stat. Find somewhere we can hold a news conference. Corral the newsies in there and promise them we'll have a statement for them. Continue Wilson,” she said, once her subordinate left.

“Yes, ma'am. As you might expect, witnesses in the crowd provided a wide range of contradictory reports regarding the shooter and the fake agents. A number of people claim to have seen his face, but reports conflict dramatically They don't agree on the shooter's race, gender, height, hair color, clothing, or age. We continue to conduct interviews, but I don't have much to add to what Agent Casper said. Our forensic team continues to search the grounds and the street for the bullet and any other evidence we can find,” he concluded rather lamely.

“Give me your assessment of the incident based on what you know so far,” demanded Regan.

“If I had to guess, I'd say that it was a professional operation. It's almost like investigating something that a black-ops agency did. It has that kind of feel to it,” Wilson answered.

Regan nodded. She thought so too.

“Which hospital admitted Knight?” she demanded.

“New York Downtown, over on Williams Street.”

“Get an officer to take me over there. I want these thugs found. I want answers yesterday, Wilson. Get to work!” she said forcefully.

“Yes, ma'am.” He escaped quickly, but not without a backward glance. He didn't like having to kowtow to a fed. “Roberts, take the special agent anywhere she wants to go.”

Officer Brian Roberts indicated his squad car, but Regan shouted, “We'll take my car,” as she climbed behind the wheel. Roberts climbed into the passenger seat, and they took off within seconds. As Roberts guided her through the south Manhattan streets, she estimated him: 23 or 24, not quite six feet, probably about 195 lbs.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the emergency entrance to the hospital. Within seconds she parked the car, and they raced inside on foot. When they reached Knight's room, they found an officer standing outside the door. Regan identified herself, and the officer let her in the room.

Knight sat up in bed reading a news magazine.

He looked up when Regan walked in with Officer Roberts behind her and yelled, “Was that what you call security?”

“I'm glad to see you doing so well,” Regan replied. “I'm quite furious with both my team and the NYPD team on the scene, as Officer Roberts here can attest.

“However, as angry as both you and I are,” Regan continued, “we have some inescapable facts in this case. We underestimated the kidnapper's willingness to go to great lengths to get that video back. They risked an armed confrontation with about two dozen local police and federal officers. They didn't hesitate to attempt murder. They deliberately interfered with a police rescue mission and investigation. There can be no doubt about the criminal nature of these people. These are highly motivated criminals, well-organized and well-financed. Their people probably have military or paramilitary training, given the perfectly timed clockwork raid they staged. So what made you decide to wear a chest protector this evening?”

“Ms. Kohn suggested it, and frankly I found it the best protection I have received so far, although I have to admit I resisted the idea at first.”

“How did she manage to talk you into it?” Regan asked, ignoring Justin's jibe.

Justin stayed silent for a moment before speaking. “While I was convinced that my uncle wouldn't hurt my daughter, Ms. Kohn asked me if I was equally convinced that my uncle would not hurt me. The idea caught me off-guard. She pointed out that if Donahue disabled my security cameras as we suspect, providing Mr. Donahue as my chief of security showed my uncle would not hesitate to violate my rights. While I was reluctant, in the end I agreed. She contacted a top company that sold the vests, and they delivered it by courier an hour later, just before you arrived at the house.”

This impressed Regan.

“You have a wise and impressive tutor.”

“Getting her back safely ranks as high as getting my daughter back safely.”

“Mr. Knight, I need to ask you a few questions about what happened. Did you see who shot you?”

Justin shook his head. “One moment I was standing there, grateful for my daughter's safe return. The next moment I found myself on the ground feeling like someone fired an anvil at me and hit me in the middle of the chest. I did not even notice the sound until after I hit my back.”

“Did you see either of the two men who grabbed your daughter and Ms. Kohn?”

Justin's face began to turn red, and she saw tears in his eyes.

“No, but I could hear my daughter screaming. I did not even have any breath to call out to her. I heard someone yell something like, 'Put them in the car,' but that is all. Ms. Regan,” he continued, looking her straight in the eyes, “I wish I could say that I do not care about the video anymore, that my uncle and his thugs can have it, and that I only want my daughter and Ms. Kohn back safe and sound. I wish I could say that, but I cannot. Oh, I really do not want the video anymore, but now that I know how far my uncle is willing to go to get it back, I want him stopped. I want him arrested.

Justin paused. “Do you understand the full nature of what he confessed on that video? I could not believe my ears the first time I heard it. My uncle, along with who knows how many other top officials, apparently leads a conspiracy that dates back nearly 100 years to the origins of the Federal Reserve System, perhaps even further back than that.”

“What does the video have to do with all this?”

“As you may have guessed, a close-knit fraternity exists among top bankers. I do not mean the kind of fraternity you might find on a college campus. As with any industry, people who pursue the same career interests tend to know each other and, in many cases, like each other. We often take vacations together. Our social circles overlap.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Yes, I am sure you would know about that. Ever since I can remember, people assured me that no conspiracy, no banking cartel, no money trust exists. They assured me over and over again that those things never existed. The assurances came from people I trust, people in my particular fraternity, including my uncle.”

“And what did they assure you?” Regan asked, although she thought she already knew the answer.

“They assured me that we never hope to be bailed out by the taxpayers, that we never request such actions except as a last resort, and that we never, ever plan on them happening.”

“Your tutor suggests otherwise.”

Justin nodded. “I know that serious weaknesses exist in the configuration of our monetary system. I know about ethical problems with modern banking, but I believed that the men and women who run our system do their level best to do the right thing for everyone, not just whatever will put the most money in their own pockets.”

“And now?”

“Now I realize my mistake regarding some of them. Now I want to stop those people, including my uncle.”

“I have some detective work to do. Get better fast, and call me if they release you from the hospital before I return. Don’t leave the hospital grounds under any circumstances until my return, and make sure you always have two officers here with you at all times. If something happens, call me immediately. Here's my card.”

She handed Justin a business card.

“Call me anytime, day or night.”

Turning back to the officer she said, “I want you to stay outside Mr. Knight's room with the other officer. I want two of you watching this room at all times. Do not, under any circumstances, let anyone enter whom you haven't cleared personally. If the hospital wants to release Mr. Knight, or if they want to move him to another room, you both stay with him at all times. Here's one of my cards for you, too. Do you understand, officer?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“I'll be back soon, Mr. Knight. Hang in there. We will get both your daughter and her tutor back as fast as humanly possible.” She turned to leave the room.

“Special Agent Regan.”

She looked at him over her shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She nodded and left the room. She gave similar instructions to the officer standing outside the door, giving him a card as well. As she walked to her car thinking, It won't be as easy as I made it seem to Mr. Knight.

A young couple sat in the emergency waiting area. The young woman read a popular magazine. Her bob-cut, black hair and plain features helped her blend into the background easily, as did her ripped jeans and well-worn cotton blouse. The young man played with a small game pad. His faux-cut, also quite common for a young man in his early 20s, and his average build and features made him just as nondescript as his girlfriend.

Neither of them seemed to notice when Regan walked past them outside to her car, nor did she notice them. Even during the middle of the night, the Emergency section buzzed with new people entering and others leaving every few minutes, typical of a big city hospital. After Regan left the building, the young man looked around to see anyone nearby and tapped a couple of buttons on his game pad. Some musical notes played, “mi-do mi-mi-do,” and a voice said from the game console, “Access.” The young man pressed some more buttons and muttered something into the game pad. His girlfriend heard him whisper, “Fed gone. Subject in treatment area. Instructions.”

A moment later, a quiet voice emerged from the game pad, saying, “Stay and watch. Report movements. Keep this channel open.” The young man and young woman exchanged glances, but then she returned to her reading, while he returned to the game he had played earlier.

About five or six minutes later, she put down her magazine and walked over to the hall where the treatment rooms lined up. She spotted the two police officers outside Justin Knight's door at the other end of the hall. So she turned around and returned to her seat, picking up the magazine once again.

A few minutes later, the young man stood up with his game pad and walked slowly to the hall while thumbing the buttons on the game until the police officers came into view. Then he too turned around and returned to the waiting area.

This pattern repeated over and over on a varying schedule, although they never got close enough to get the attention of the police officers standing outside Justin's door. Occasionally, one or both of the young people walked up to the emergency room's information desk to further randomize their movements, but no one noticed that they never stayed at the desk long enough to ask a question, including the very busy people working behind the desk. Sometimes they went over to the vending machines, which also gave them a view of the hall where the emergency treatment rooms connected to the lobby, but only rarely did they buy anything from the machines.