The engine roared to life on the second turn of the key.

I threw the car into reverse, tires screeching against the wet asphalt.

In my rearview mirror, the man in the trench coat appeared at the entrance of the alley.

He did not run after me.

He simply stood there, pulling out a phone and holding it to his ear.

I drove toward the highway, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white.

The federal building was twenty minutes away.

I watched my mirrors the entire time, changing lanes every few miles to see if the sedan was following.

It did not appear.

They knew where I was going, or they did not care.

I parked in the underground garage of the federal building, paying the attendant with a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

The concrete structure was vast, cold, and smelled of gasoline.

I took the elevator to the fifth floor.

The doors opened to a sterile lobby with beige carpet and fluorescent lights.

A security guard stood behind a thick bulletproof glass partition.