“Gomez! Miller!” he shouted toward the front desk.
Nothing.
When Vance entered the dispatch lobby, his two night-shift deputies were lying face-down on the tiled floor, zip-tied, gagged, and unconscious. A black USB drive sat calmly on the front counter beside a printed letter addressed to the United States Attorney for the District of Colorado and the FBI Special Agent in Charge in Denver.
Vance’s phone buzzed again in his hand.
A text message.
Look out the front window.
Vance staggered toward the glass double doors. Fifty yards away beneath the flickering amber glow of a streetlamp stood a lone figure on the sidewalk.
The man wore a dark canvas jacket and heavy boots. He held no weapon. He simply stood there, staring directly at Vance through the glass.
Vance narrowed his eyes, attempting to place the face. Then every bit of color drained from his head.
It was the courthouse janitor. The gray-haired man who pushed a mop bucket past his office every Tuesday night. The man who always lowered his head whenever Vance walked by.
