Present Day

“Stop him! Stop that man!” Gun drawn, FBI Agent Mick Haas’s steps thudded down the federal building’s sterile gray corridor in pursuit of the man known as ‘the cutter,’ so named because that was how he killed his victims. “Ahmed Alzaha, stop or I’ll shoot.”

Dodging into an open doorway, the Cutter grabbed a black metal object from a table near a glass enclosed booth. Surprise and shock crossed his face as the windowed room sealed around him and the floor of what he realized was a booth began to move and shift under him. A deafening silence greeted his ears as the people in the room faded from sight. His cries of “Allah is good, Allah is great” escaped the sealed booth as Alzaha disappeared from view.

“Where is he? Where did he go? What did you do?” Haas frantically pointed his gun at the three people remaining in the room.

“Check the coordinates, get a fix,” a dark-haired woman ordered immediately as she aimed her own weapon at Haas.

“Got it, and have a fixed position,” a second woman answered without glancing up from the console she had immediately turned to.

“You, away from the door, sit in that chair,” the dark-haired woman ordered Mick.

“That was my pri…”

“Shut up. You shut up till we get stabilized.”

As Mick sat, he saw that the woman had taken the safety off her Glock and, from the expression on her face, he had no doubt she would pull the trigger without the slightest provocation on his part. “You sure you got the fix, Jazz?”

“I do indeed, Mizz Sami, I do indeed,” the second woman drawled.

Sami. Mick knew that name. Sami Pettis, one of the Anti-Crime Team’s, otherwise known as ACT top agents. ACT, a clandestine agency under the purview of Homeland Security which purportedly had more gadgets and gizmos than the CIA and James Bond rolled into one. And Sami—she had a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later. Not a good sign when here he was looking down the barrel of Sami Pettis’s gun. He noticed a guy in the room had simply stood observing Sami and the woman called Jazz, but did nothing to intervene either when Alzaha ran into the room or Sami snapped out her orders like a drill sergeant on speed. Sami cut her gaze to the observer and at his nod she asked Mick, “Who were you chasing?”

“Ahmed Alzaha.”

“The terrorist who went on trial this morning?”

“The same.”

“You want to tell me what he was doing running down the corridor and not on a leash by your side?” she snapped.

“Not really,” Mick groused.

The woman at the console glared at him, prompting him to respond, “He grabbed hold of my partner’s gun…didn’t get it out of the holster, but in the attempt all hell broke loose and he started running. I took off after him and he ran in here and, thanks to you stopping the pursuit, he’s escaped.”

“Yeah, maybe, maybe not. Jazz?”

Jazz cut a look at Mick before looking back to Sami for confirmation before speaking. “He’s in Wyoming.”

“What? Are you nuts?” Mick asked.

“What year?” Sami ignored the FBI agent, eyes intent on the woman at the console.

“1862.”