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“Are you sure? Sure they didn’t get him?”

I can sense him. You failed.

“What about the men we sent to attack Whiskey Company?”

They are dead. You failed.

Ogden said nothing. He’d known that all the men would die. Even with the element of surprise, the odds were just too great. But if he’d kept all eighteen men together, they would have crippled Whiskey Company. This was Chelsea’s fault.

Ogden pushed the thought away. Chelsea knew best—he seized that belief and held it, because it was far better than imagining himself suffering the same fate as her mother.

“Chelsea, what now?”

There is nothing we can do to stop the boogeyman from coming. We need more time. Start the contingency plan.

Ogden nodded. “Yes, Chelsea. I’ll begin immediately.”

Dew scanned the Jewells’ yard for a place to hide. The vehicles out on the road sounded like approaching Humvees. More of Ogden’s troops. He holstered his .45 and ran to the man he’d killed outside the computer room. He slung the man’s M4 and pulled at his ammo belt.

The G.o.dd.a.m.n biohazard suit was getting in the way. He couldn’t possibly run through the woods in that. They’d catch him in minutes. He unzipped and started taking it off when Perry called out.

“They’re coming!”

Dew turned and looked. His b.a.l.l.s shriveled up—five Humvees roaring down the long driveway.

He was out of time.

Dew looked for cover. A sagging, charred wreck of a refrigerator. He ran behind it, then aimed his M4 at the lead vehicle.

“Dew, don’t shoot,” Perry said. “I’m not hearing any chatter.”

Dew looked at him, then back to the Humvees that were almost on top of them.

“Well, too late anyway,” Dew said.

The front Hummer slid to a halt behind the two that had brought their attackers. Soldiers pointing M4s poured out, led by the blocky figure of a man almost as big as Perry. A bandage circled his head, bright white against his black skin, a red spot on the left temple. He wore a sergeant major’s chevrons and star. Dew saw that some of the other men also had fresh bandages. The man looked at Perry, then strode toward Dew.

Dew scrambled around the melted fridge. He felt silly standing there in his scrubs, the biohazard suit dangling off at the waist.

The sergeant major snapped a salute so rigid and perfect that it was d.a.m.n near comical. Dew returned the salute, only because he’d seen men like this many times—this guy would hold that ridiculous salute all d.a.m.n day if he had to.

The man lowered the salute and slid into an at-ease stance. “Are you Agent Dew Phillips?”

“I am,” Dew said, wincing at the man’s bellowing voice.

“Sergeant Major Devon Nealson, sir. Domestic Reaction Battalion, Whiskey Company.”

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