He donned his suit jacket — bespoke and British — and checked his reflection in the marbled enamel mirror that hung on the opposite wall; a severe face took his measure — dark hair touched with gray, olive skin, forbidding brows over deep-set eyes, and a meticulously groomed beard. His mouth twitched — a futile stab at warmth before turning to the door. Even he recognized the futility of such an exercise.

With a flick of his fingers, he signaled for his companions to follow. The soles of his polished wingtips slapped against the stone floor, flattening the motif of flowers and vines. It was a long way from his office to the lower levels of the Agora, and the glass and gilt lifts presented a fine view of the snow-dusted city — a quiet moment to ruminate, were he inclined to indulge, which he was not. No corner of his mind was available for idle thought.

Eventually, the ground rose and swallowed him. A few seconds and sixty feet deeper, the cabin doors slid open. The sophisticated veneer of the Agora's public face had vanished, leaving behind pale gray walls and dim, outdated lighting — buzzing as a bulb began to fail.

“Fix that,” he snapped.

“Right away, Senator.”

A dark gray carpet, accented with vaguely geometric patches of maroon and chocolate, softened the impact of his tread. He entered a room lined with monitors, inhabited by three people, and a one-way window.

“Rufe, excellent. We were just about to begin,” a slender blond woman in a charcoal pantsuit informed him, pressing a small, green button on the wall. “Unfortunately, the Director won’t be joining us.”

“You were going to start without me, Isolde?” he inquired. The curve of his mouth was gently mocking, but the weight of his gaze communicated a warning.

Senior Special Agent Isolde Gerahty’s answering smile was sweetly venomous — her specialty. “Of course not. That would be brazenly naive.”

“It would,” he agreed, studying the sullen, young man and sole occupant of the cramped room beyond the window. He sat on a plastic chair, elbows on the metal table, hands fidgeting as he waited. The boy was pale as death, with limp sandy hair and sunken, empty eyes.

“Name?”

“Levi Wilton, seventeen, son of Frank and Jenelle Wilton, cadre affiliation — Ierning Aldor. He was caught on camera speaking with Talia Davis ten minutes before the abduction. He didn't come forward, so we extended an invitation. He has reluctantly obliged us.”

An agent, lean and dark, entered, setting a folder and a pen on the table before taking a seat. “Mr. Wilton, I am Special Agent Benning. Would you care for a glass of water? Tap only, I’m afraid — waste policy.”

Mr. Wilton glanced up, his eyes void of emotion, and returned his attention to his hands. Benning smiled, called for water, and sat, clearing his throat.

“They'll arrive shortly,” he assured the boy. “You spoke with Talia Davis before she was grabbed — a three-minute, forty-three-second exchange. Would you please describe that conversation?”

Levi studiously picked at his nails. Special Agent Benning waited patiently, undisturbed by the silence. After knocking, a second agent entered with two glasses.

“Thank you, Petry.” Benning smiled at the agent's retreating back. “Talia's parents have not heard from their daughter in over seventeen hours. No ransom demand; nothing to direct the search. Her chances are dropping like a rock.”

Mr. Wilton yawned, unmoved.

“You're a good kid, Levi — grades, volunteering. You're service-oriented. Anything you know — Talia’s mood, her worries — now is the time to spill. Even crumbs could help.”

Mr. Wilton scratched some old tape off the table but remained silent.

Quietly, Special Agent Benning murmured, “If she's murdered, consider how you are going to feel, Levi. How will your parents feel? They're watching this interview.”

Levi glanced at the mirrored window, his eyes flickering with life but his lips firming in a straight line. He went back to the grubby tape.

“It may be in your power to prevent a tragedy,” Benning coaxed.

The boy didn't look up, but his mouth spasmed. It was there and gone in a fraction of a second.

An exultant smirk crinkled the corners of Rufe's lips. He’d recognized the flutter of muscles for what it was. A smile could mean anything, but it was enough to convince the Senator that Levi Wilton knew something. Rufe tapped on the glass.

“Time’s up,” the special agent sighed and rose.

The Senator continued to study the boy for a moment, considering his next move.

“What? Are you waiting for permission? Serrecold's given you free rein,” Gerahty exclaimed, waving a hand at the door.

Chuckling silently, he nodded and exited. The good Senator was aware that his popularity was not universal. Isolde Gerahty and others of her ilk resented his interference and questioned his motives and methods. They could not argue with the results, however.

A moment passed before Rufe appeared on the opposite side of the window.

“What a prick,” Special Agent Gerahty mumbled with vehemence. Those with her wisely remained silent, however much they might agree, even when she demanded, “What does this have to do with Internal Investigations, anyway?”

A fair question.

Mr. Wilton had launched an in-depth analysis of the structure of a callus on his palm. With equal fascination, Rufe repositioned Benning's chair and, moving in a blur, hammered his fist down on the center of the table with enough force to buckle its metal legs, sending the two untouched water glasses flying. Glass shattered.

Levi’s head shot up, and he stared at Senator Rufus Balbay. The boy's pupils expanded, a horrible understanding entering his expression, until his face went slack.

The Senator's grin was slightly apologetic, his manner brisk.

“Start at the beginning, Mr. Wilton. Tell me everything you know about Talia Davis,” he encouraged.

Chapter 1:  Time’s Up Pt. 1

 By Thio Isobel Moss

Ten Years Later: February 26th at the Agora in Chicago, Illinois

“Senator, they're ready.”

Rufus Balbay glanced up from his pristine desk and nodded to the aide. He signed the document in his hands and placed it in the out tray before rising from his chair. It was a delicious combination of toffee-stained oak and supple leather that gave a little whimper as he stood.