Henry Lee stared at the wall clock in the ICC waiting room. He’d been here for a good fifteen minutes, watching the hands of the clock crawl. The wait strained his already frayed nerves. Just five more minutes and he could make his next call to Dixon.

Someone had left the Saturday Tribune on the unmanned and empty registration desk. Headlines and colored photos of the bombing dominated the front page. He didn’t want to see any of it. Couldn’t even look at it.

He tried to keep still. He’d bitten half his fingernails to the quick—just like his grandson. It had been an old habit he thought he’d replaced with single malt Scotch, but he hadn’t been able to have a drink since Thanksgiving. Now here it was Saturday morning.

In twenty-four hours there’d be another attack.

He shook his head. No one could stop the attack. He didn’t have much faith that Special Agent Margaret O’Dell would be able to do anything. Maybe warn the airports and Homeland Security. He’d done his part, done what he could.

Henry wanted to believe that the young FBI agent would find a way to save Dixon but deep down he knew he’d forced her to make a promise she had no way of keeping. It’d be up to Henry to take control. If he expected to see Dixon again he’d need to bargain with them this time. Put away his anger and negotiate a deal.

The people who had Dixon were hired mercenaries, minions of the Project Manager. They could be bought. That’s what he convinced himself. He didn’t care how much money they wanted, he’d get it. In his mind he’d already started accessing accounts and determining which one had liquid assets. The holiday weekend would make it tricky but not impossible.

Finally. It was time. He could call.

His hands resumed their annoying tremble, making it an effort to punch in the correct numbers on the waiting room’s desk phone.

He counted the rings…three, four… They had to pick up. He’d waited the allotted five hours they told him to wait. But instead of an answer there was a click and his own voice instructed him to leave a message.

“No.” He slammed down the receiver.

His cell phone was still on. It wouldn’t ring five times if they’d shut it off or if the battery had run down. Why would they ignore it? Besides, they had to talk to him. How would they get any ransom if they didn’t talk to him? Isn’t that what they wanted? Yes, they had to talk to him. It was in their best interest to talk to him.

He dialed again, punching in the numbers quickly as if he might trick his fingers from shaking. He took a deep breath, ignored the acid backing up into his throat. The phone rang and rang until yet another click, then, “This is Henry Lee, please leave a message at the tone.”