37
Vaughn Millard shivered inexplicably from something he could not explain. It was late. Outside, night had fallen and brought with it an ever-present, accompanying chill of cold air drifting over the nation’s capital from the not-so-distant Snowy Mountains. Although the Federal Police building was adequately heated against the night chill, it was not the cold that precipitated Millard’s unease. Perhaps it was precognitive of events yet to unfold. Perhaps he was just plain tired. Or perhaps the long-anticipated finality of his situation had arrived.
It was time. He had made up his mind. If the situation unfolding at Aningie Station had not yet worked out as he had hoped, he very much doubted it ever would. He should have heard from Herrera and Vargas, or Williams and Boyd, by now. How h
