Nevio Roone burned with anger. He arrived at his office at 3:30 a.m. to interrogate his underlings about the debacle.

He flexed his forearm muscles and grimaced as he listened to a report from Haven Donahue about what transpired on Nassau Street. They met in Roone's office on the 62nd floor of the Hanover-Rush building. Donahue sat on the other side of his desk, watching Roone's blazing eyes, which accented his flaming red hair. Roone's red hair came from his father's Irish side of the family, as did his temper. His Sicilian mother accounted for his Italian first name. He stood only 5'6” tall with a medium build, but the fire inside him constantly threatened to rage out into the open at the best of times and made him seem much larger to most people. At the moment, it took every fiber of his being to prevent himself from putting Donahue through a wall.

Born and raised in Belfast, he grew up a republican activist and attended the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, which marked the end of the period in Irish history known as “The Troubles”. However, his compatriots, he didn't want to remain a revolutionary. He aimed considerably higher. He learned during his youth that those with the political might and the big money behind them always won...and he intended to get both.

He immigrated to New York, where he quickly found employment with Hanover bank in its security department before it merged with G. Rush & Co. to form Hanover-Rush. He proved himself on the job demonstrating enthusiasm and found himself quickly moving up in the ranks. Finally, at the relatively young age of 35, he won the position as head of security at Hanover-Rush. He amazed many with the speed of his career advancement, which he accomplished primarily by turning a chance meeting in a hallway with David Knight himself into an opportunity to make an impression. Knight took to the young Irishman immediately, and his future prospects brightened considerably. His career growth took off, culminating in Knight personally selecting Roone for the top security position eight years ago.

Now 43, his red hair thinned in places, but his fire still roared. He sat at his desk with his hands bundled up in fists. He sized up Donahue for a moment before bellowing, “What the bloody hell happened?”

“What do you mean?” Donahue replied, surprised. “Your people screwed up the whole thing, allowing the feds to find her and get her out of there so easily. I pulled your bacon out of the fire. I got Knight. Quit complaining!”

“You eijit,” Roone jumped up and leaned across the desk to shove his nose in Donahue's face, “You didn't get him. He's still alive!”

“No way,” Donahue replied, “I'm a sharpshooter. Top of the class at the Point. I got him right in the middle of the heart. I'm sure of it. If he isn't dead now, he will be soon.”

“I sent a feckin’ sky pilot to do a man's job. Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. He wore a bulletproof vest, you mongo sap! Why didn't you shoot him in the head?” Roone raged.

The shock on Donahue's flushed face perfectly complemented Roone's deep red one.

“He doesn't own a bulletproof vest! Where the hell did he get a bulletproof vest?”

“How the feck should I know?” Roone screamed. “It's your job to know these things before you pull the trigger!”

“Shit!” exclaimed Donahue.

“Yeah, no shit!” Roone shouted back.

Roone shook his head in disgust and plopped back into his desk chair. He took a couple of breaths, then asked, a little less angry, “So, how did it perform?”

“The rifle? Very impressive. I've never tried a W2000, but I'd say this little beauty,” he held up a small suitcase, “performed at least as well, possibly better. Snapped it together in less than 15 seconds. Comfortable and well-balanced. The trajectory held straight and true. I could've hit the bastard at twice the distance. Your propeller heads did a nice job when they invented this,” Donahue said.

“They're working on a repeater,” Roone said with a smile. “Semi-automatic .030. Should be done by spring. All right, we've gotta figure out our next steps. At least Porter's men got the teenage molly back, and her sally tutor to boot. That's good insurance.”

Just then the phone rang. Roone grabbed it and shouted, “Roone.”

He stood up and spoke in a calmer voice, “Yes, sir...No, sir...Yes, sir, we got her back...Yes, her tutor too...No, sir, we won't screw up again...Yes, sir, you do pay me too much for that kind of...No, sir!...No, sir....Yes, sir, I understand...Yes, sir, you can count...”

After an audible click, Roone stood there holding a phone connected to nothing. As soon as he hung up, it rang again.

“Roone,” he said, after picking it up. After a moment he sighed and said, “Report!” Then he collapsed in his chair, rolled his eyes, and ran his hand through his short hair. “Am I completely surrounded by morons?” he shouted into the phone. “Get back here. We've got to take Knight back. We'll have a plan by the time you arrive, so move!”

He slammed the phone back down again and his eyes dared it to ring. The phone wisely stayed silent.

“Sonofabitch,” he expostulated. “They lost the sally and the molly. The old man will friggin' kill us!”

Donahue knew better than to say anything at this point. He just sat and waited. After a moment Roone said, “Okay Donahue, I want you to organize a snatch. Get an ambulance out of the motor pool and find a medic. Work out the timing and personnel for grabbing Knight and getting him into our ambulance. You'll take him to our Brooklyn holding pen until I arrive. Got it? Get back here in 20 minutes with the details worked out. I want a complete, well-timed, written plan. Move!”

“I thought we wanted Knight dead,” Donahue said, getting up.

“Eijit!” Roone shouted at him, “Without the other hostages, the old man will piss green when he hears about it. You heard me on the phone just now. I promised him no more screw-ups, and two minutes later I find out that we screwed up...again! We need a patsy now, a fall guy, and we need him right now,” Roone ranted. “We gotta get his nephew back in our hands. I'll bet the old man could throttle the bastard himself, and him in his 60s! Don't imagine for a minute he couldn't pick up the phone in five seconds and find someone to throttle you and me! Now get going!”

After Donahue left, Roone picked up the phone and made a different call. After a moment he heard the other party answer, “Regan.”

He said, more calmly than before, but still with an edge to his voice, “Roone here. So, did you get the video?”

“Yes, we have it,” said Regan.

“Thank God!” Roone breathed with relief.

“Why did you take a shot at Knight?” Regan demanded.

“We didn't,” Roone denied instantly, shouting again. “What kind of amateur setup are you running over there anyway?”

“Oh, come on, Nevio, that operation had your fingerprints all over it,” Regan said disgustedly. “Don't insult my intelligence. Of course your people did it. I want to know why you did something so boneheaded.”

“I said we didn't do it!” Roone yelled into his phone. “We don't have any reason to want Knight dead.”

“Yeah, right. Who else could it have been?”

“Clearly, a third party got involved in all this, someone who wants Knight dead, probably the same someone who made the video in the first place.”

“Oh, really! And who might that be?”

“How should I know who it is? That's your problem, mate, not mine,” Roone shouted. “We want that video back now.”

“That video is evidence in a kidnapping that your people carried out.”

“Do I have to ask my boss to call the President again?”

”You shouldn't be so proud of yourself. The only reason you're not in custody now is because of your political connections.”

“And they're pretty damn good connections, I think you'll agree.”

“Maybe, for now, but you're too cocky for your own good. Political fortunes can change at the drop of a hat. You ought to be more careful, Roone.”

“Oh, spare me the holier-than-thou bullshit. Your time is up, Regan. You just haven't figured it out yet. But enough of the melodrama. Where and when do we meet?”

Regan sighed. She saw no point in withholding the video now. She already made a copy for bureau files, and clearly no court would ever see it in a kidnapping trial.

“Send someone to Federal Plaza at 11:00 a.m., and we'll turn it over.”

“Okay, good. Now that makes sense.”

“Which one of your flunkies will you send?”

“No one, I'll take custody of it myself. I'll be there at 11:00.”

He hung up and sat back. He needed time to think.

Regan disconnected at her end, too. The bastard didn't lie very well, but at least she found him easy to read, and he guessed one thing right without realizing it: a third party did act in the background. She found it interesting that he didn't know anything about the Agorist Underground.

She went to Federal Plaza and made arrangements to leave the video disk with Records to duplicate it and make it ready for pickup by Roone. She took a call which informed her that the scene of the kidnappings had turned into a media circus. While speaking with someone named Robert Jeffries from the bureau's Office of Public Affairs, she learned that he scheduled a press conference for noon that day. An earlier briefing at 10:00 a.m. would give them the opportunity to get their message straight for the press.

No leads had emerged yet on the missing black sedan, so she had little else she could do at the moment. An unpleasant upcoming call with the Director loomed later in the morning, but for the moment she needed to get some rest. She phoned the NYPD First Precinct and arranged for someone to call her if any new developments arose. Then she headed over to her hotel for a few hours of much needed sleep, with instructions left to wake her immediately should anything arise.