January 28, 1944 – 10:00 AM
The United States Senate was not designed for speed.
Sal learned this lesson slowly, painfully, over the course of five days spent cooling his heels in marble hallways and waiting rooms. Senator Guffey had opened a door, but behind that door was a labyrinth—committees, subcommittees, hearings, reviews, and a thousand ways to say "we'll look into it" without ever looking into anything.
Rosa handled it better than he did. She'd grown up around military bureaucracy, learned from her father that patience was a weapon and persistence was armor. She made phone calls. She wrote letters. She visited offices with plates of cookies and smiles that could cut glass. She became a familiar face in the corridors of power, and slowly, grudgingly, the corridors began to open.
Margaret Chen came to stay with them.
She arrived on a Greyhound bus with one suitcase and a determination that matched Rosa's. Her parents thought she was visiting a friend. The truth was she'd quit her job, emptied her savings, and committed herself entirely to finding Tommy Miller.
"He's alive," she said, sitting at the Lombardis' kitchen table, clutching a cup of coffee she wasn't drinking. "I can feel it. Even without the connection. Even without anything. I just know."
Sal believed her. He'd seen the way Miller looked at him through that fence—not like a prisoner, not like a victim, but like a man holding on. Waiting. Hoping.
"They're going to move them," Sal said. "Reynolds won't let them stay in one place now that people are asking questions."
"Then we have to move faster." Margaret looked at him with eyes that held no doubt. "What do we do?"
Sal didn't have an answer. But someone else did.
The knock came at 2:00 AM.
Sal woke instantly—old habit, years of late-night emergencies—and reached for the pipe wrench he kept under the bed. Rosa stirred beside him.
"Stay here," he whispered.
He padded to the door in his bare feet, wrench raised, and opened it just wide enough to see.
A man stood on his stoop. Young, maybe twenty-five, in a lieutenant's uniform. He had the same sharp eyes as General Pierce, the same set to his jaw. Harrison Pierce III, grandson of the general.
"Mr. Lombardi? We need to talk."
Lieutenant Pierce sat at the kitchen table, turning a cup of coffee in his hands. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, uniform rumpled, the kind of tired that came from days without sleep.
"They're moving them," he said. "Tomorrow night. Reynolds got wind of the senator's inquiry. He's transferring all twenty-six to a different facility. One we don't know about. One that doesn't exist on any map."
Sal's blood went cold. "Where?"
"That's the problem. I don't know. Nobody knows. Reynolds runs this operation like his own private empire. He doesn't share information with anyone."
Margaret appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a robe. Her face was pale. "Tommy. They're moving Tommy?"
"All of them." Lieutenant Pierce looked at her with sympathy. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear."
"Then we stop them." Margaret's voice was steady. "Tonight. Before they can move."
"How? It's a guarded facility. Twenty-six prisoners. Armed guards. Fences. Dogs. We can't just—"
"You can't. But I can." Margaret looked at Sal. "Tommy said you could feel them. Even after the connection was broken. Is that true?"
Sal hesitated. "It's not like before. It's just... impressions. Feelings. I can't hear them anymore."
"But you can feel them. Enough to know where they are?"
"Maybe. If I'm close enough."
Margaret nodded. "Then we get close. Tonight. Before they move."
Lieutenant Pierce stared at her. "You're serious."
"I've never been more serious about anything in my life." Margaret turned to him. "You said you could get us in. Your grandfather said so. Can you?"
Pierce looked at Sal. At Rosa, who'd appeared behind Margaret. At these ordinary people from an ordinary row house, planning something extraordinary.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "I can get you in. But I can't guarantee I can get you out."
Margaret smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who'd already made her peace with the consequences.
"That's my problem," she said.
The plan came together through the remaining hours of darkness.
Lieutenant Pierce had access to the area around Camp Holloway—his unit conducted training exercises in the nearby woods. He could get Sal and Margaret to the perimeter, past the first set of guards, close enough for Sal to feel the prisoners.
After that, it was up to them.
Rosa wanted to come. Sal refused. Flatly. Absolutely.
"Someone has to stay with Maria," he said. "Someone has to be here if we don't come back."
Rosa's eyes glistened, but she didn't argue. She kissed him hard, held him tight, and whispered something in Italian that he didn't catch but understood anyway.
Margaret had no one to kiss goodbye. She just packed a small bag, checked the photograph of Tommy she kept in her pocket, and nodded.
"I'm ready."
They left at dusk.
The woods around Camp Holloway were dark and cold, the kind of cold that seeped into bones and stayed there. Sal and Margaret followed Lieutenant Pierce through the trees, stepping carefully, avoiding twigs and leaves that might crackle underfoot. The lieutenant moved like a ghost—trained, efficient, silent. Sal moved like a plumber trying not to step on things.
They stopped at the edge of a clearing. Beyond it, through the trees, lights glowed—the fence, the buildings, the camp.
"I can't go further," Pierce whispered. "There are patrols. Dogs. If I'm caught, it's my career. If you're caught—" He didn't finish.
Sal nodded. "We understand."
Pierce handed him a small device—a walkie-talkie, military issue. "If you get in trouble, call. I'll do what I can. But no promises."
Sal took it, tucked it in his pocket, and looked at Margaret.
"You ready?"
She nodded. Together, they stepped out of the trees.
ns216.73.216.253da2
and then Add to home screen.