Sterling met Ivy back at Reagan's office two hours later, both of them running on nothing but adrenaline and bad coffee, the press conference footage still looping on every screen in the building.

"Any word on Webb," Ivy asked, the second she was through the door.

"Nothing." Reagan's face was gray with exhaustion and fear. "His apartment's empty. No sign of forced entry, no note, nothing. Either he ran, or someone convinced him to."

"Or someone took him," Sterling said grimly.

Ivy's stomach turned over, thinking of the man's shaking hands around his coffee cup, the guilt worn thin on his face, the way he'd finally, after nine years, decided...