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To their right, three lanes of I-75 heading north, then just past it three more lanes heading south. Those six lanes slid under the overpa.s.s of another six-lane highway, this one M-102, also known as Eight Mile Road. The sound of tires whizzing over wet pavement combined with hundreds of pa.s.sing engines to create an almost riverlike, tranquil babble.

“That’s a lot of lanes,” Peter said.

Alan nodded again. “Yep. Sure is.”

He turned and looked into the back of the Humvee. He’d already counted what was back there five times, but G.o.d was in the details, so he counted again.

“Seems like a long ways off for a perimeter,” Peter said. “We’re ten miles away from the gate. How are we gonna hold a perimeter ten miles out with just two f.u.c.king platoons, you know what I mean?”

“The general knows what he’s doing,” Alan said. “So does Chelsea. They’re bringing in the other two platoons from g.a.y.l.o.r.d, so we’ll have that. Besides, the bigger the area we control, the harder it is for them to find Chelsea.”

Peter nodded. “Makes sense, I guess. Still, I wish we got to do the airport thing.”

“Willis and Hunt got that one.”

“I know,” Peter said. “I hate those guys. We should have got that gig. Let’s just hope we make it back to watch the angels come through. That will be such a glorious moment.”

“Truly,” Alan said. “But if we don’t see it, I’m sure it’s all part of the plan.”

Peter nodded, slowly and solemnly. “Okay, so we’ve seen these roads. Where is our spot?”

Alan pointed up to Eight Mile. “We’ll just drive up there and get to work.”

“Easy peasy,” Peter said.

Alan nodded. “Easy peasy bo-beasy. Let’s go. We’ll just drive around and see if we get the call. You hungry?”

“I could go for some McDonald’s,” Peter said. “I have the biggest craving for it lately. That, and I can’t stop jonesing for ice cream on a stick.”

“You too? Man, that’s weird. I never liked ice cream before, but now I wanna f.u.c.king bathe in that s.h.i.+t. Let’s eat.”

They got back in the Hummer. Alan waited for traffic to clear, pulled onto the road and headed north, looking for the golden arches.

GO SOUTH, YOUNG MAN

Take some lumpy s.h.i.+t from horses, the smelly kind that’s peppered with half-digested hay. Mix that with gravel. The jagged kind. Now cover it all in kerosene and light it on fire.

That’s what it felt like inside Dew Phillips’s skull. He’d slept on the floor of the computer room, right after Baum and Milner convinced him it would be funny to put a pa.s.sed-out Perry Dawsey on the autopsy trolley.

Well, that was kind of funny.

A headache like that and a hyperactive Perry Dawsey jabbering a mile a minute? A match made in h.e.l.l.

“Perry, you gotta talk slower,” Dew said. “Seriously, my head.”

“Yeah, mine too,” Perry said.