33
Jana heard the radio traffic regarding the surveillance of Bastian Mokolo and William Macy. She pulled into the parking lot of the Atlanta field office at Century Center just as a spring rain shower finished washing a thick layer of pollen from her car. She dodged the few remaining rain drops, and darted across the parking lot towards the sleek rectangular building. Pollen pooled into bright yellow streams as it washed off the pavement and found its way into drainage grates.
On the tenth floor, she walked through the lobby to the heavy, steel-reinforced door that led into the FBI office. She pressed her cheekbone against the retinal scanner, the door opened, and she walked in. In the conference room, agents were gathering. Ever since the Montana bombing, the Atlanta office had been sw
