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“I understand that,” Vanessa said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Your bloodhound picked up the scent. Now send in professional soldiers, not Phillips and his pet psycho.”

Donald cleared his throat. “Vanessa, Ogden’s men are already deployed. I don’t think Murray has a choice here.”

She shot Donald a glare that spoke volumes. “Ogden has four hundred eighty men in the DOMREC,” she said, using the military acronym for Domestic Reaction Battalion. “Four companies of a hundred twenty men each. Ogden is going in with X-Ray Company and he’s got Whiskey Company on reserve there, right?”

Donald nodded.

“That leaves Companies Yankee and Zulu on the ground at Fort Bragg,” Vanessa said. “So why the h.e.l.l aren’t we using them instead of Dawsey and Phillips?”

“We need to be subtle,” Murray said. “Glidden is a town, not the deep woods. If we drop two companies on Main Street, USA, that might attract a little attention.”

“And a rampaging psychopath won’t?” she said.

“That’s enough,” Gutierrez said. “Murray, I’m sure you took steps to keep Dawsey in check, am I correct?”

“Yes, Mister President,” Murray said. “We have two seasoned agents following Dawsey at all times. Dawsey will locate the hosts, then these men will move in, take Dawsey down if necessary and secure the hosts.”

General Cooper knocked twice on the table. “This is all good and fine, but we have an attack to monitor here,” he said in a voice so gruff it almost sounded like a caricature of how a marine general should talk. “Not to speak out of turn, Mister President, but there’s information we need to share so you know what you’re seeing when the attack begins.”

Gutierrez nodded. “Thank you, General Cooper. Murray, before we focus on Ogden’s attack, I want to make something clear. We know that this is a crisis situation and Americans may get hurt, but we don’t need them getting hurt by the people who are supposed to be solving the problem. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” Murray said. “I do.”

Murray did understand the need to control Dawsey—he just hoped Dew Phillips understood it as well. Vanessa Colburn wasn’t playing around. She clearly wanted Murray gone. And as much as he disliked that woman, she was right about one thing . . .

That kid was a f.u.c.king psycho.

YOU SHOULDN’T HIT YOUR KIDS

Dew Phillips ran a red light at the intersection of Grant and Broadway. He’d even put the port-a-bubble on top of his Lincoln, its circling light playing off the sheets of pouring rain. f.u.c.k secrecy. He had two men down. That murdering kid was going after hosts again.

Dew wondered if any of the infected would be alive by the time Margaret arrived.

Thadeus McMillian Sr. sat at his kitchen table, bouncing his five-year-old son, Stephen, on his knee. Stephen wore his favorite fuzzy yellow pajama bottoms and a little Milwaukee Bucks T-s.h.i.+rt. Looked so d.a.m.n cute. Stephen was the good child. Tad Jr.? Not a good child. Sara? Not a good child.

Thadeus pushed the thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about his daughter.