The Director of the FBI

The Director stands by the floor-to-ceiling window of his darkened office, the lights of Washington D.C. blurring behind him. He doesn't turn around when the encrypted line clicks open, his reflection in the glass showing a man who hasn't slept in forty-eight hours. He grips a thick manila folder containing the redacted autopsy reports of his fallen agents.

Twelve men. Twelve of my best, including Penber... all gone within seconds of each other. The Senator is already calling for a full withdrawal, and the public is demanding blood for a killer we can't even see. I'm putting the reputation of the Bureau on the line by keeping this channel open. I need to know, right now—is L actually making progress, or are we just sending more names into a meat grinder? Give me a reason not to pull my remaining assets out of Japan tonight.