Two hours later, they arrived at Perseus's apartment building in downtown Manhattan. The building was upscale, the kind of place where hedge fund managers and tech executives lived. Perseus's apartment was on the twenty-third floor with a view of the entire city. The operation was massive—probably overkill, but nobody was taking chances. Agents had surrounded the building, covering every exit. Snipers were positioned on nearby rooftops. The tactical team had already secured the lobby and stairwells. It looked like the feds were raiding a terrorist cell, not picking up one man for questioning. "This is Agent 261121. The suspect has entered the building," came the voice over Afferty's earpiece. "All clear on the south side." "North side clear." "Roger that. All units, we are green for entry." Afferty and Chen, along with four tactical officers, made their way up to the twenty-third floor. The building's hallways were quiet, carpeted in expensive material that muffled their footsteps. They reached apartment 2307 and stacked up outside the door. "Perseus Jackson, this is the FBI. We have a warrant. Open the door," one of the tactical officers called out. No response. After the required waiting period, they breached. The door came down with a single hit from the ram, and the team flooded into the apartment. It was luxurious inside—hardwood floors, modern furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows with that promised view of the Manhattan skyline. Art on the walls that looked expensive and old. Very old. They found him in the living room, sitting on a leather sofa, completely relaxed. He was flipping a coin—an ancient coin, by the look of it, worn smooth by what must have been centuries of handling. He didn't even look up when they entered. "Perseus Jackson, you are under arrest. Put your hands in the air," Afferty commanded, his weapon trained on the man. Perseus caught the coin and finally looked up. His eyes were calm, almost amused. "And who may you be?" "Shut up. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?" Perseus smiled slightly. It wasn't a threatening smile, more like the expression of someone watching a play they'd seen many times before. "Well, that's nice. But you're making a huge mistake." "No. You made the mistake of thinking you could get away with this," Afferty said, his voice hard. "Whatever." Perseus stood slowly, hands visible. "May I call my lawyer?" Afferty nodded to one of the other agents, who handed Perseus a phone. "You are entitled to a phone call." Perseus dialed a number from memory. The call connected, and he said only one sentence: "Bring your ass, Echelon is go." Then he hung up and handed the phone back. The phrase meant nothing to Afferty. Some kind of code to his attorney, probably. "Now, we can go to Langley and start questioning you. Don't try anything, or we will use force." "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, officer." Perseus allowed them to cuff him—loosely, because the man wasn't resisting at all—and they led him out of the apartment.

At FBI headquarters at Hoover’s building, the mood was celebratory. Word had spread quickly through the building: they'd captured Perseus Jackson, and he was potentially La Cebra. This was huge. Career-making. The kind of collar that got people promoted. What nobody in the celebration knew—what only a handful of people in the entire agency knew—was that at that exact moment, back at the NSA facility in Fort Meade, Maryland, all hell was breaking loose. The NSA's signals intelligence division intercepted every phone call made in the United States. Most were automatically filtered, flagged, or discarded by algorithms. But certain phrases triggered immediate human review. "Echelon is go" was one of those phrases. The moment Perseus's call was intercepted, every screen in the NSA's operations center flashed red. Alarms began blaring. Analysts jumped from their seats. "WHAT IS GOING ON!" shouted Director Michael Torres, the head of the NSA, running into the operations center. A senior analyst, his face pale, turned to face him. "Sir, we intercepted a phone call made by Perseus Jackson approximately eight minutes ago. He activated the Echelon Protocol." Director Torres felt his blood run cold. "FUCK! I've got to call Webb!" He sprinted to his office, grabbed his secure phone, and dialed the direct line to FBI Director Raymond Chen. It rang three times—each ring felt like an eternity. "Chen." "Ray, it's Michael at NSA. We have a massive problem. It's Perseus Jackson. Someone at your agency arrested him, and he just activated the Echelon Protocol." There was a brief silence on the other end, then a whispered curse. "Oh my God. When?" "Eight minutes ago. Maybe less. You need to get to him now and release him immediately. I'm calling the SecDef, but Raymond—you know the protocol. Once it's activated, Ghost Ops is already en route. You've got maybe twenty minutes before they arrive." "Who the hell arrested him? That information is supposed to be—" "I don't know and it doesn't matter right now. Get him released and get your people out of that building. I'll do what I can on my end." Director Torres hung up and immediately dialed another number. This one went directly to the Pentagon, to the office of the Secretary of Defense. "This is Secretary Smith," came the gruff voice. "Mr. Secretary, this is Director Torres at the NSA. We have an Echelon Protocol activation. Perseus Jackson. FBI custody at Hoover’s building." There was a long, weary sigh on the other end. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Not again. This is the third time in five years. Third time! What is wrong with these people?" "Sir, I've already notified FBI Director Chen. He's moving to resolve it now." "Doesn't matter. The protocol is active. I'll inform Ghost Ops and give them the target location. They'll handle containment and extraction. Jesus Christ, this has happened way too many times already. I'm going to have to brief the President again, and she's going to ask me why the hell we keep hiring people who don't read the briefing materials." "Sir, I think it's a compartmentalization issue. Most field agents don't have clearance high enough to—" "I know, Mike. I know. It's a systemic problem and we'll fix it. Later. Right now, I need to make sure nobody dies who doesn't have to. I'll handle it from here." The line went dead.