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Ogden would have felt better using all four companies, but it was just too much to move a full battalion into a small town. Plus, it was prudent to leave two companies of the DOMREC free to react, in case a gate popped up somewhere else. The DOMREC was the only unit that could deploy and be combat-ready anywhere in the Midwest inside three hours. The next-fastest response time would come from the Division Ready Force. The DRF’s mission was to put lead elements anywhere in the world within eighteen hours of an alert. If DRF had to deploy in the continental United States, that would probably cut it down to seven or eight hours, but no way in h.e.l.l could they be ready to fight in three hours.

When it came to that kind of speed, there was Charlie Ogden’s unit and no one else.

HOW TO DEAL WITH THE DEATH OF A FRIEND

Clarence Otto sat in the modified sleeper cabin of the MargoMobile, Margaret on his lap, her forehead in the crook of his neck and her legs supported by his arm. Her tears and snot dripped onto his jacket. If he noticed, he didn’t seem to care.

She couldn’t stop crying. She wanted to, tried to, but she couldn’t. She’d cried all night until she’d fallen asleep on the computer-room floor, then started again as soon as she woke.

They were driving north to g.a.y.l.o.r.d. Driving to more death. To more horror.

She was still wearing her scrubs, the same ones she’d slept in, the same ones she’d been wearing under the hazmat suit when Betty Jewell killed Amos Braun.

Killed her friend.

A friend she would never, ever see again. She just wanted him back. Why couldn’t he just come back?

“I’m so sorry, Margo,” Clarence said as he gently petted her hair. He kept saying that. Maybe he didn’t know what else to say. It didn’t matter what he said, really. She was grateful just for the sound of his voice.

She should have been the one to call Amos’s wife. She’d never met the woman, but still, Margaret should have done it. She’d taken the coward’s way out, though—Dew sent a couple of FBI agents to deliver the news.

“I need to get up,” she said. “I have to watch the video from my helmet-cam. Maybe I missed something, maybe I already forgot something when . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“There’s plenty of time to work later,” Clarence said. “You need a rest. Besides, we’re driving. It’s not safe for you to be in the trailer when this thing is rolling along.”

He kept petting her hair.

The cold lump in her chest wouldn’t go away.

“If only . . . I could have . . . gotten his helmet off sooner,” she said quietly, her sobs breaking up her sentence.

“You know that’s not true,” Clarence whispered. “She cut his artery. There was nothing you could have done.”

“But I . . . was in charge. It’s . . . it’s my fault.”