I was on the move, but the whole scene felt more than frustrating-it was actually surreal. I flew by private jet from San Francisco to a small town in Nevada, and from there caught a ride in an FBI helicopter to what had once been Sunrise Valley.

I was trying not to think about little Alex, trying not to think about Jamilla, but so far it wasn't working. Maybe once I got to the bomb site? Once I was there in the action, in the middle of the shit.

I could tell by the way the local agents deferred to, and fussed around, me that my reputation, or the fact that I worked out of Washington, was making them nervous and edgy. Director Burns had made it clear that I was one of the Bureau's troubleshooters, that I was his troubleshooter. I wouldn't carry tales back to Washington, but the agents in the field offices didn't know that. How could they?

The helicopter ride to the bombing site took only about ten minutes. From the air, I could see emergency lights all around Sunrise Valley, or what had been Sunrise Valley. The town was gone now. There was still smoke, but no fire was visible from the air, possibly because there was nothing left to burn.

It was a little past eight o'clock. What the hell had happened out here? And why would somebody go to the trouble of destroying a hole-in-the-wall town like Sunrise Valley?

I had been briefed as soon as I stepped inside the FBI helicopter. Unfortunately, there wasn't too much information available. At four that afternoon, the residents-except for one male who'd been shot-had been "evacuated" by what appeared to be U.S. Army national guardsmen. The townspeople were then driven forty miles away to a point halfway to the nearest large town, Elko. Their location was called in to the Nevada State Police. By the time the troopers arrived to assist the badly frightened townies, the army trucks and jeeps were gone. And so was the town of Sunrise Valley. Blown off the map.