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“True,” Alan said. “Just got carried away. You ready?”

Peter nodded. “That guy’s horn is bugging me. Maybe we should show him what it means to love instead of hate?”

“Chelsea would like that,” Alan said. “But we don’t have time. I’ll talk to him.”

He opened the door carefully and stepped out into the hazy gray light of a frigid winter afternoon. Cars whizzed by on the second lane, missing him by inches, kicking up fine sprays of dirty slush.

The guy kept honking.

Alan reached back in and grabbed his M4. He saw a French fry on the seat and popped it into his mouth. It was still warm—five-second rule and all. As he chewed, he walked to the Hummer’s back b.u.mper.

The car behind him was an SUV. Who still drove those things? Pretty f.u.c.king tough on the environment.

The driver saw Alan, saw Alan’s gun.

He stopped honking.

Alan pointed the M4 and squeezed off a burst. The SUV’s winds.h.i.+eld spiderwebbed, splattering with red from the inside.

Tires screeched. People saw him and swerved, not thinking about the fact that they were on an overpa.s.s and there was nowhere to swerve. Cars smashed. Metal ground. Plastic cracked. Gla.s.s scattered.

Alan turned and saw Peter leaning over the overpa.s.s rail, an AT4 rocket on his shoulder. A cone of flame belched out the back as a rocket streaked down, trailing smoke for two seconds before it hit a gray Chrysler. The car turned into a fireball rolling along at sixty-five miles an hour, spewing parts and burning tires as it went. Peter dropped the empty rocket tube, aimed his M4 and started firing on the panicked traffic below.

Alan would join him in a second, but first he had to take care of all the people suddenly stuck in their cars. In only ten seconds, the Eight Mile Road overpa.s.s was already shut down.

Alan pointed, squeezed off a burst, turned to the next target and repeated.

NOON: IT HITS THE FAN

Murray Longworth hated the G.o.dd.a.m.n Situation Room. He’d had it, just had it. Maybe Vanessa Colburn was right. Maybe it was time for a new generation. Let the kids have the country—it was time for Murray Longworth to go golfing.

They’d killed the satellite, G.o.ddamit. They’d won. It should have been over, and now a wave of bad news so high he could drown in it. A sense of hopelessness, a feeling that no matter what you did, the enemy was going to keep coming, keep trying to kill you—it didn’t just depress him, it exhausted him.

Thirty-three soldiers dead at the g.a.y.l.o.r.d airport. Thirty-three so far, because some of the wounded weren’t going to make it. Ogden gone AWOL. The Exterminators unaccounted for. And now Detroit.

They had all gathered in the Situation Room; the Joint Chiefs, the secretary of defense, Tom Maskill, Vanessa. Gutierrez himself would be there soon.

The main flat-panel screen changed to a news helicopter’s shot of a highway. The bottom left corner of the screen showed a logo for Detroit’s WXYZ-TV. The bottom center of the screen read EIGHT MILE OVERPa.s.s AT I-75. Hundreds of cars sat motionless on the three lanes heading north as well as the three lanes heading south. On I-75, cars had driven up the inclined shoulder, some stopping there, others rolling back down to land on their sides or roofs.

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