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“Hold on, kid,” Dew said. “It’s out of our hands now.”

The missile seemed to pick up speed as it closed in, covering the final bit of distance in the blink of an eye. Up ahead the lead Osprey ejected a spray of flashes with white contrails. Countermeasures of some kind.

They didn’t work.

The Osprey rocked to the left, a fireball spewing out of its right side. Amazingly, it didn’t disintegrate. Perry felt a flash of hope that the pilot had lived, that he might be able to set her down. Then the Osprey’s right engine fell away. The half-plane/half-helicopter simultaneously rolled to the left and tumbled forward as it plummeted. It disappeared beneath Perry’s line of sight. He didn’t get to see it crash, but those guys were gone. Twenty members of Whiskey Company, plus the Osprey crew.

Dead. Just like that.

“Let’s hope they’re out of Stingers,” Dew said. “Our chances of survival just dropped from sixty-six percent to fifty-fifty.”

The alarm beeped again.

“I guess they’re not out,” Dew said. He looked semi-relaxed, not in the least concerned that he had a 50 percent chance of dying in the next ten seconds.

The alarm changed from a beep to a steady blare.

“That’s not good,” Dew said.

Perry heard whoos.h.i.+ng sounds, something shooting off of his Osprey. Two seconds later he heard an explosion. The Osprey tilted to the left a little, then came back to normal and kept descending.

Dew looked a little bored.

“How can you be so calm?” Perry said. “The next one could be us.”

Dew shrugged. “When your number is up, your number is up. Besides, you’re here, and you’re like a c.o.c.kroach—you survive anything. I’m sticking close to you. You’re like a big death umbrella.”

Perry nodded and tried to control his breathing. Dew was going to stick close to him? Screw that. More like the other way around. This was Dew’s world, and Perry wasn’t going to leave his side.

Dew nudged him. “Take a look out front. We’re coming in for a landing. Right up your alley.”

Perry looked, then shook his head.

Dew started laughing.

12:46 P.M.: Otto on the Run

Clarence turned, aimed and fired, squeezing off four rounds as Margaret sprinted toward the long, two-story, tan brick building. She glanced at the street signs—Franklin and St. Aubin. Cinder-block walls filled the building’s windows. The place looked like a miniature fortress.