RONAN My right hand slammed down onto the back of my left, crushing an acrobat ant that had been crawling there. The bite came too late. The rest of them were already on me. Tiny legs moved across my skin, up my shirt, down into places no one ever wants insects to reach. The nest had to be right under me. No doubt about it. The urge to scream rose fast. Muscles tensed, ready to jump up, to thrash around, to tear my clothes off and run straight into the nearest body of water. Every instinct demanded movement. Panic begged for release. Control won. Barely. Breaking cover would mean death. The squad nearby wore black tactical gear and carried serious weapons. One wrong move and they would see me. If that happened, they would reach me in seconds.A slow breath slipped out through my nose. The air pushed dead leaves aside as it left me. Focus shifted away from the ants and locked onto the men ahead. Watching them became survival. Spotting them before they saw me was pure luck. Silent thanks went to the counter-espionage instructors from basic training. The lessons had been shallow compared to what CIA or Special Operations received, but they were enough. Those people trained longer. They learned to read ground like a book. Tracks, shadows, disturbances. Someone like that would have seen this squad far earlier. A computer systems engineer was not worth that level of training. Not important enough. No foreign power would waste resources tailing someone like me. Still, what little training existed gave just enough warning. The stolen bike was dragged off the Interlink Highway and shoved into the thick trees of the median strip separating lanes. That decision probably saved my life. Fear mixed with fascination as the squad moved. Survival screamed to run the other way. The analyst side refused. More information was needed. Enough time passed to understand their purpose. Searching. Moving from vehicle to vehicle. Checking buildings across the road. Always in pairs. Weapons raised where their eyes went. Doors treated like traps. Every motion was clean and controlled. These men were trained. Either by the military or as the military. The thought crossed my mind that they could be contractors working for the Department of Defense, maybe sent to assist Fort Meade. That idea died fast. The place was too sensitive. Only official DOD personnel would be allowed anywhere near the nation’s most critical intelligence systems. Contractors sold loyalty to the highest bidder. No one would risk that kind of access. Information from this site would be priceless to the Indians or the Russians. A check ran for signal leakage. Contacts fed what little data they could into my virtual display. Nothing appeared. Another slow breath escaped. Whoever these men were, they knew how to shut everything down. Strict information denial. Professional. The idea of sneaking closer formed. Mobile devices might separate their signals from background noise if distance closed. That idea died just as fast. Detecting them at all had been luck. Closing in on trained killers would be suicide. Staying put was the only choice. Body pressed into the ground. Movement reduced to almost nothing. Ten minutes passed like an hour. Eventually the teams finished clearing the buildings. They regrouped and moved down the road again. Same direction I had been traveling before. Certainty came only after they were far beyond human hearing and beyond any enhanced audio systems they might carry. Then control broke. The jump to my feet was violent. Hands slapped everywhere. Arms. Chest. Legs. Futile strikes against dozens of ants crawling under clothes and across skin. They would keep turning up for hours. Maybe until a shower finally washed them away. A shiver ran up my spine. The thought of them in my hair made my stomach twist. My left arm took a hard pinch. Pain snapped focus away from panic. The spiral stopped before it could take hold. The bike was lifted and dragged through the thick growth of the highway median. A short laugh escaped before it could be stopped. The sound felt strange. Nearly killed by a mindless drone. Hunted by trained paramilitaries. Yet bugs still broke me. Some fears never left people.The back tire caught on a thick, twisted branch. Pulling it free snapped the wood with a loud crack that echoed too far. The sound froze me for a second. While moving again, thoughts turned to the connection between the drones and the men. Not a soldier, but enough veteran coworkers had shared stories. Military drone units were usually deployed for recon, patrol, or shock. They broke defenses and spread chaos. Human forces followed fast and took advantage of that confusion. That pattern was missing here. Nearly thirty minutes had passed since leaving the facility. These men should have followed right behind the drone attack. They had not. Drones were also used as part of human units to add flexibility. That was not happening either. These squads operated alone.Something was wrong. Breaking through the vegetation led to the far tree line. Movement slowed again. Most of my body stayed behind cover while eyes searched both directions of the Interlink Highway. A glance went upward, scanning for aerial drones. Being spotted by an army drone would help. It could lead to safety. But the enemy had already shown advanced technical skill. Their own flying platforms were likely watching. One mistake could mean death or capture. High above, dozens of condensation trails crossed the sky. The blue was fading into gold as sunset approached. Many trails headed toward the DC metro. My stomach tightened. All communication had been dead since the attack. That realization hit hard.This was not just Fort Meade. It was bigger. The NSA was too important. Any attack there should have brought an overwhelming response. No reinforcements had arrived. Worse, many stationed forces were gone. Only one explanation fit. They were deployed somewhere else. The fast movers heading toward the Capitol confirmed it. Everything was being pulled toward a higher priority. “Might have to save myself,” slipped out quietly. The right hand flew up and slapped the left shoulder hard. “Goddamn ants,” hissed under my breath. Movement still crawled under the clothes. “I can’t take this.”Eyes tracked down the road in the direction the paramilitary group had gone, but on the opposite side of the median. A convenience store sat further down. Decision formed fast. The bike rolled onto the pavement. Pedaling started toward the store. The wide median should hide movement. The odds of being seen or heard through all that plant life were low. Riding stayed close to the edge of the road, ready to dive back into cover if needed. Momentum carried the bike through parking spots that doubled as charging stations and up onto the sidewalk. A quick stop followed. The bike was tucked between the building and the dumpsters along the side. The door was unlocked. It swung open.A chime rang out and sounded far too loud. Inside, most shelves were empty. Food and water were gone. Employees likely took everything when they fled. No cars sat outside. One aisle held racks of tourist clothes. A shirt came off the rack. Eyes rolled at the design. A cartoon man grinned and held a giant mug of alcohol. The words underneath read, “I love Meade!” No time for humor. Movement was fast toward the restroom. The door was jammed open with an extra shirt pulled from the rack. Hearing mattered while changing.If someone came in, I needed to know.