Pete and Jones made it back to the station in quick time but things were already out of control. Captain McManus was up to his neck in calls from the higher ups in the city who wanted to know what was being done to take care of the Prophet. McManus tried to insist that his best people were on it, but there was no answer that was going to satisfy them. They wanted it handled yesterday, and their political clout made it hard for McManus to dismiss their concerns. The pressure was getting to the old man, but there was nothing he could do about it. Pete was in charge and would do whatever he could to resolve the matter, but things were only getting worse. With the firing of a rocket propelled grenade on the highway, many powerful people were calling for Homeland Security or even the National Guard to come in and help take care of the Prophet. A bit extreme, but it was clear that the group this madman was targeting were scared and rightly so. As Pete walked back into homicide by himself, McManus wasn't even in the mood to call him in and walked out to meet him.

     "Tell me you have something on this guy," he captain begged, "Anything?"

     "We got his RPG launcher," Pete replied. "Jones is taking it to forensics, but I'm not holding my breath. Our suspect got away in a black van. I wasn't able to get anything from the plates, but I'm going to access highway cams. Maybe we'll get lucky and get the whole plate and can trace the vehicle."

     "How many were killed by the RPG?" McManus asked.

     "Two were inside the limo when it was hit," Pete answered. "The guy he was after wasn't inside, and he left Dodge a long time ago. We were able to question him before he fled the nation, and he did receive a specific threat from the Prophet a while back."

     "That might be his undoing," McManus said. "I've been on the phone all morning, and we've recovered quite a few letters that punk has been sending out to the upper crust of the city. Hopefully we'll see a pattern, and that might allow us to trace where this guy might be dumping his mail."

     Pete could see where the captain was going, "If the mailroom or box has a camera on it, that might help us identify our man."

     "Exactly," the captain said with a grin; he still had it. "Let me know when you get more on the launcher. I want to know how the hell that bastard got something like that into our city!"

     "We're on it," Pete replied. He wanted to know as well, because there was no telling what else the Prophet had brought into the city. The last thing he wanted was his suspect to elevate to more dangerous weapons like bombs. That would scare people enough that the feds would have to come in and take over their case. Pete wasn't surprised people were scared, but right now he and his team were the best shot at getting this guy. It was their city, their stomping ground, and there was no way he was going to let some bureaucratic, pencil-pushing jack off from Washington pull the rug out from under him. He got back to his desk and several recovered letters from the Prophet were waiting for him to inspect. Each one was inside a zipped bag, and he put on some gloves to inspect them. Each letter was more or less the same; repeal your rotten ways or I will punish you for not respecting those who work under you. He inspected the envelopes. There was no return postage, but the stamp of what mail center processed it would be a start. They would have to trace it to see what mailbox this was put into and hopefully they'd get lucky.

     Pete was hoping that the Prophet was dumb enough to mail them out from one mail center, pay the postage for everything at one time. He doubted that was the case but buying postage stamps for all these letters was quite risky because if just one had bad postage, his plan would fall to pieces. There was no way the Prophet would risk one letter not making it to its destination. That would ruin months of planning. He had to have personally sent them from a post office. Pete made a phone call to the post office and after being put on hold for several minutes by a few people, he was finally able to speak with someone, who quickly refused to divulge any information, citing right to privacy and other bullshit before hanging up.

     "What?" Grozza asked from across their desks.

     "He hung up on me," Pete said as he slammed the phone down. "Can you believe this shit?"

     "Was that the post office?" his partner asked.

     "Yeah." Pete rubbed his eyes.

     "Let me handle that." Grozza picked up the phone. "I know someone there who might give us some inside help."

     "Good idea." Pete said, sitting back and watching as Grozza work his magical charm on the first person who answered. It was his power of persuasion that made Grozza such an asset. He could charm his way into someone's house rather than wait hours for a warrant. It came in handy to have someone who could negotiate and save time, when lives were at stake.

     Pete got up from his desk and grabbed himself a cup of coffee. After tossing in a few sugars and some cream, he walked into the lounge where a few officers on break were watching the news. It was all about the Prophet and his attacks on the city, which was now the top story of every national network. It was only a matter of time before Homeland wanted to get in on the action. Pete was honestly surprised he hadn't heard from the boys at Homeland Security already. The use of an RPG would put the Prophet on the verge of being called a terrorist and that would take the gloves off. Pete wanted to get this guy bad, but the Prophet was careful, meticulous and that was going to make it tough for anyone who was on the case, local or federal.

     "How are you guys doing, Pete?" one officer in the room asked.

     "It's going," Pete admitted. "He's not making it easy for us."

     "The crazy ones are usually very organized," another detective in the room called back.

     "Then this son of a bitch is the craziest person on the planet," Pete said as he took another sip and kept watching what was on the tube.

     The national network was doing full, live coverage from their city. The reporter was going over what happened to the limo when the RPG ignited and tore it to shreds. There were pictures of the burned-out vehicle but no graphic shots of the bodies to be respectful of the victims. Pete knew that just seeing what remained of the limo was going to freak people out, but he was curious why the news kept the fact that it was a limo under wraps. Despite the Prophet's threats toward only the rich people of the city, the press was desperately trying to paint a picture where anyone could be a victim. This was out of hope that someone would phone in a tip that would help the police apprehend the Prophet, but it wasn't going to work. Despite the hope that they would hold out, various papers had printed his letter and his video had gone viral on the Internet. Gone were the days of waiting or the news to not go out until the next morning, every major company has a website that could post the news instantly, and after the RPG attack, the Times a few other organizations printed the Prophet's letter, clearly afraid the next rocket was going to be pointed at them.

     The Prophet's message was clearly out there.

     If you were a normal, hard-working American trying to support a family on whatever crumbs you were given, you were not his target. The people hogging the entire loaf to themselves were the real targets. This also meant the police were not going to get any help from the viewing public. There were even groups and fan clubs popping up online, supporting the Prophet and his quest. On Wall Street, people started showing up with signs that had the Prophet's signature statement; remember the ninety-nine. These were the same people who had worked for the man for decades only to watch their jobs go overseas so that their boss could see a minimal rise in profits. These people were tired of the lack of protection they were getting from the greedy bastards on Wall Street. Since the Prophet was standing up for Main Street, the popular support for his actions wasn't going to bode well for his case. As Pete kept watching, the thought of people protesting support for the Prophet was upsetting. Never had he seen such an outcry for the killer and not the victims. In this case, the victims were being punished for doing something the people didn't approve of, which meant that with each attack the public was going to be more vocal in their support of the vigilante. Yet there was nothing the police could do as long as the protest was peaceful. While they could try to shut it down, claiming that it was inciting violence, the truth was the Prophet was copying a protest that had been going on for a while. For all he knew, the Prophet was using their rallying call as a cover to hide his true motives. It was something that Pete had to entertain, at least until he had reason to think otherwise.

     He walked out of the lounge and saw Jones at his desk, on the phones with Grozza. Jones didn't have anywhere to sit so Pete didn't have a problem with her taking the initiative and working as many leads as possible. He strolled past their desk and toward the window, where squad cars were coming and going, the usual mad rush to change shifts and still keep the city running the same as usual.

     Gibbons noticed something out of the corner of his eye: black cars pulling up in front of the station and men in dressy suits storming into the building. Pete didn't have to be a detective to know what was going on. The feds were being pressured to get involved and were there to make their presence known. He left the window and over to his captain's office.

     "We got feds inbound," he called out.

     "What are you talking about?" McManus said as he took the phone from his ear. He didn't have to wait too long before four men in suits came storming into homicide and let themselves into the captain's office without even knocking.

     "I'm sorry... who the hell do you think you are?" McManus asked, making sure he irritation was duly noted.

     "Special Agent Eric Grosse, Homeland Security." The man said as he flashed his credentials in their face.

     "Well, I wasn't informed anyone was coming in," McManus replied with an air of annoyance from their lack of their manners. "So, you and your fancy badge can mosey the fuck right out of my building."

     "We were informed by your commissioner that we would have your full cooperation," Grosse said, obviously not in the mood for red tape.

     "Well, you don't." Gibbons said as he finally stepped in. "We're handling this case, and this is a case of domestic terrorism. Shouldn't you be looking for someone in a cave somewhere in the Middle East?"

     "We're not going anywhere!" Grosse spat out, losing his temper.

     "If you're not leaving, then make yourself useful." Pete held up one of the letters sent out by the Prophet. "We need to trace where these letters came from. We've been trying to find out if these were sent from a mailbox or a post office. Right now the federal post offices have been less than cooperative. Maybe you can shake something out of them?"

      "Seriously?" Grosse asked, seeming insulted.

      "This guy is highly organized," Pete continued. "There is no way he just licked his stamps and hoped that his letters would get to their destination. I'm pretty sure he took all of these to a post office and made sure each letter had sufficient postage to arrive exactly where and when they were supposed to. If he did it at a post office, there might be film of our guy sending them out. That might help us bring that dirt bag in, which is why I'm sure you guys were forced to come out here in the first place!"

     "Alright," Grosse said as he swiped the bag with the letters away from him. "We'll contact the postal service and strong arm them into talking. But I'm warning you; if we have more bloodshed, that's it. We'll be taking over."

     "Get in line," McManus said as he slammed down the phone. "That was the FBI; they're saying the exact same thing."

     "I realize you guys are under a lot of pressure," Pete said as he tried to ease tensions. "But getting into a pissing contest over jurisdiction only helps one person and that's the loon out there trying to kill people. Regardless of who is in charge, we need to work together or we'll fail and many more people will die."

     Grosse paused for a moment. "Agreed. We'll see what we can do."

     Out of nowhere, Jones came running into the room. "Gibbons, we have a situation."

     "What's going on?" Pete asked.

     "Cooper's dead," she quickly answered.

     "We just watched him get out of town," Pete replied.

     "What the fuck happened to him?" McManus demanded.

     Jones paused for a moment. "His plane crashed. We think it was a bomb."