22

Cass pulled up to the address and sat as the engine settled into silence. The house before him was aggressively ordinary—shutters hanging askew, paint curling away from weathered siding. It was forgettable, yet commanded his attention with strange gravity. The anonymous text had directed him here with a simple instruction: "Come alone. 6 p.m. sharp."

The dashboard clock read 5:58. He remained in place, thumb tracing the outline of Elaine's photo on his keychain. Her smile, preserved in plastic, offered no guidance.

"You'd tell me not to go," he murmured. "But we need this."

Cold air rushed to greet him as he stepped from the car. Traffic sounds drifted from distant thoroughfares, but this particular street remained suspended in unnatural quiet. His boots crunched across the gravel path as he approached the door and knocked twice.

It opened just enough to reveal a pair of wide, vigilant eyes. The woman behind the door had the hollow look of someone who'd surrendered sleep days ago.

"Oh," she said, voice wavering. "It's you."

Cass tilted his head. "Were you expecting someone else?"

"They didn't tell me who to expect," she replied, widening the gap. "You'd better come in."

Hesitation gripped him, the disquiet from his drive now forming into something sharper. He stepped across the threshold into air heavy with stale disinfectant. The woman guided him down a narrow corridor into a sparsely furnished living room—a couch and a coffee table buried under unopened correspondence.

"There," she said, indicating the floor with a quick gesture.

A plain cardboard box occupied the center of the room.

"What's in it?"

The woman shrugged. "They just said everything you need is inside."

Cass knelt, pulling back the box flaps. He cleared several layers of foam packaging before reaching something solid, and then his heart dropped. At the bottom of the box lay several blocks of C-4 explosives. His lungs seized mid-breath.

"Is that...?" The question dissolved, his hands suspended above the contents. The woman didn't respond, but simply stared at the box, and then at Cass.

Every survival instinct screamed for retreat, yet his body refused command. He stared at the explosives, mind racing to recalibrate. This diverged catastrophically from his understanding. The protests, the amplification system they'd provided, the media coverage—all were meant to drive change through visibility and pressure. This represented something entirely different. Something he'd never sanctioned.

A thunderous crash shattered his thoughts. The front door splintered inward as the hallway filled with tactical boots and authoritative commands.

"POLICE! ON THE GROUND! NOW!"

Cass pivoted, heart hammering against his ribs. Armored officers flooded the living room, weapons trained unwavering on him and the woman.

"GET DOWN!" one officer barked.

He dropped to his knees, raising his hands with deliberate slowness. "I'm unarmed!" he called, voice fracturing.

"FACE DOWN!"

Complying, Cass lowered himself to the floor, rough carpet fibers pressing into his cheek. The woman's sobs punctuated the chaos, her terror mirroring his dawning comprehension.

"Clear!" an officer announced. "We've got it."

A knee pressed into Cass's spine as his arms were wrenched backward. Handcuffs snapped around his wrists.

Polished shoes entered his limited field of vision. Cass strained to see a detective standing above him, expression set in professional grimness.

"Cass McCarthy," the detective stated, voice level but unyielding. "You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, terrorism, and undermining the democratic process. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—"

"What?" Cass choked out. "Wait, no. This isn't... I didn't—"

The detective ignored him, continuing to recite Miranda rights with mechanical precision. Around them, officers were cataloguing the contents of the box, taking photos and tagging evidence bags.

Cass's mind reeled. The explosives. The secrecy. The anonymous messages. It all came into focus with horrifying clarity.