Herod's phone rang at 3:17 AM. The cheap motel room was dark except for the blue light of his burner phone cutting through the blackness. He squinted at the screen. Unknown number. His finger hovered over the decline button, but something made him answer.

"Hello?"

"They found everything." The voice on the other end was hushed, stressed. Derek Martinez, his contact at the FBI. "Your business card in the wreckage. Your fingerprints on the detonator parts. ...