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One of the triangle’s slitted eyelids was slightly open — but instead of the glistening black Murray expected to see, there was a sagging, puckered, grayish membrane, like a party balloon that had almost fully deflated.

The shaking camera whipped around to once again focus on Mitch.e.l.l. He leaned in close, until the screen showed only his wide, bloodshot eyes.

“Dead! Dead as f.u.c.k! Because of me! Someone come and get me, please come and get me, I make these a.s.sholes die! You want to save the world? Then you better f.u.c.king save me!”

The movie ended, leaving a blurred image of the too-close face up on the screen.

Blackmon looked shaken. Seeing an American citizen being cooked on a spit would do that to a person. She sat on the edge of the table, maybe to keep herself from collapsing. The polished surface reflected the bright red of her pantsuit.

“So this man could have Montoya’s hydras,” the president said. “Where is he?”

“Chicago,” Vogel said. “Park Tower Hotel, downtown area.”

Blackmon slid off the table, stood straight. She gave her pantsuit jacket a sharp tug downward, as if she were just about to go on camera.

“Admiral Porter, I want this man. What kind of resources do we have around Chicago?”

Porter shook his head. “We have nothing in that area, Madam President. All of Illinois is a mess. Converted have been spreading out from the Chicagoland area. We’ve got troops positioned at the nuke plants near Rockford and Wilmington, killing anything that comes close. Davenport and Champaign are part of that chain, trying to slow the spread from the suburbs. We could pull some of those forces, but doing so is going to widen the gaps the Converted can get through. Indianapolis is holding strong and I highly recommend we don’t pull troops from there. Once we beat this thing, Madam President, we’ll need those power plants and the industrial base of cities that weren’t overrun.”

“Screw the power plants,” Blackmon said. “If we don’t get this man, there won’t be anyone left to use power.”

The idea hit Murray fast, took him over and charged him up.

“The SEAL team that rescued Montoya,” he said in a rush. “They’re in quarantine on the Coronado. That s.h.i.+p could be off the sh.o.r.e of Chicago in hours, and it has two SH-60 Seahawk helicopters. The SEALs could go in, get Mitch.e.l.l and bring him back out again.”

Blackmon considered this. “Admiral? Will that work?”

Porter nodded. “Maybe. It’s a d.a.m.n good idea, but the city is overrun — a partial SEAL team probably isn’t enough.”

“Then get me something to back them up,” Blackmon said. “Admiral, if we have any reserves at all, this is the time to use them.”

Porter drew in a deep breath. Even at this late stage of the game, he wasn’t going to rush things.