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“Threatened to yank our press passes,” I said.

“Nice,” said Steve, raising his eyebrows. “He pressing charges?”

“No, that’ll probably come after tonight’s episode of ‘meet the press.’ ” I climbed into the back seat.

Shaun did the same on the opposite side of the car, commenting, “She means ‘beat the press,’ don’cha, George?”

“Possibly,” I said.

“Now will you tell me what’s going on?” asked Rick, getting into the front passenger seat and twisting around to face us.

“It’s simple, really,” I said, sagging into the seat. Shaun already had his arm in place to support me, offering as much comfort as he could. “Dave and Alaric followed the money and proved that Governor Tate was behind the attacks on Eakly and the ranch. Also, PS, the CDC is potentially involved, which isn’t going to make me sleep any easier tonight, thanks. The senator wasn’t thrilled with the idea that his running mate might be the goddamn devil, so he’s asked us to go back to the Center to prepare our notes while he decides whether or not to fire our asses.”

There was a long silence as the other three people in the car attempted to absorb what I’d just said. Surprisingly, it was Steve who spoke first, in a low rumble closer to a growl than a normal conversational tone. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“We have proof,” I said, closing my eyes and leaning into Shaun’s arm. “People have been funneling him money, and he’s been funneling it on to the sort of folks who think weaponizing Kellis-Amberlee is a good thing. Some of that money’s been coming from Atlanta. Some of it’s been coming from the big tobacco companies. And a lot of people have died, presumably so that nice ol’ Governor Tate can be Vice President of the United States of America. At least, until the president-elect has some sort of tragic accident and he has to step into the position.”

“Georgia ” Rick sounded almost awed, overwhelmed with the possibilities. “If we know this for sure—Georgia, this is a really big deal. This is Are we allowed to know this and not just report it to the FBI, or the CDC, or somebody? This is terrorism.”

“I don’t know, Rick; you’re the one who worked in print media. Why don’t you try telling me for a change?”

“Even in cases of suspected terrorism, a journalist can protect his or her sources as long as they aren’t actually sheltering the suspect.” Rick hesitated. “We’re not, are we? Sheltering him?”

“Pardon me for breaking in, Mr. Cousins, but if Miss Mason’s proof is as good as she seems to think, it doesn’t matter whether she plans on sheltering him or not. My partner died in Eakly.” Steve’s tone was normal now, almost casual. Somehow that was even more disturbing. “Tyrone was a good man. He deserved better. Man who started that outbreak, well. That man doesn’t deserve better.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I have no intention of sheltering him. I’ll talk it over with the senator, and if he wants to throw us off the campaign, he’s welcome to. I’ll mail our files to every open-source blog, newspaper, and politician in the country while we’re on the road for home.”

“This is crap,” Shaun said, withdrawing his arm.

“Right,” I agreed.

“Absolute f**king crap.”

“No argument.”

“I want to punch somebody right about now.”

“Not it,” Rick said.

“I punch back,” Steve said. A note of amusement crept into his voice, making him sound a little less likely to explode. That was good. Not that I’d object to seeing Tate get the crap kicked out of him—I just didn’t want to see Steve go to federal prison over it when the FBI would be just as happy to do the honors. Hell, after they had Tate in custody, and considering what had happened in Eakly, they might be willing to let Steve have his licks. Just as long as they got theirs first.

“Just have patience; this is all going to be over soon,” I said. “One way or another, I guess we’re finishing things tonight.”

“Let’s pick one way, okay?” said Shaun. “I don’t like another.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Neither do I.”

We finished the drive in silence, pulling through the Center gates and enduring the barrage of blood tests that followed with as much grace as we could muster. Three of us were exhausted, scared, and angry; Steve was just angry, and I almost envied him. Anger’s easier to run on than exhaustion. It doesn’t strip your gears as badly. Less than two hours after convincing him to abandon his post for my fool’s errand, Steve drove back into the motor pool, his car heavier by two journalists and a whole lot of free-floating worry.

“Don’t say anything, please,” I said, as we climbed out of the car. “I’m meeting with the senator tonight, when he gets back from his dinner. After that—”

“After that, I guess what needs doing is going to be clear one way or the other,” said Steve. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have gone into security if I didn’t know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Steve smiled, briefly. I smiled back.

“George, c’mon!” Shaun called, already a good four or five yards from the car. “I want to get out of this damn monkey suit!”

“Coming!” I shouted, muttering, “Jesus,” before I turned to follow him back to the trailers.

Rick walked with us as far as the van; then he turned left, toward his trailer, while we turned right, toward ours. “He’s a good guy,” said Shaun, pressing his thumb against the lock on the trailer door. It clicked open, confirming Shaun’s right to enter. “A little old-fashioned, but still a good guy. I’m glad we got the chance to work with him.”

“You think he’ll stay on after we all get home?” I started rummaging through the mass of clothing on the beds and floor, looking for the cotton shirt and jeans I’d been wearing earlier.