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“Now?”

“Yeah, of course now.”

“What about Montoya?”

“Forget her, man. We gotta get ready for the counterattack. If the general beats us there . . .”

“Fine. Let’s go, men. Haul b.a.l.l.s.”

Creaking boards. One last faint crunch of gla.s.s. Footsteps descending the stairs. Margaret and Clarence waited, but heard nothing. Her body sagged as if her soul had slid free and taken her skeleton with it.

Her body relaxed, but Clarence’s did not.

“I want you to stay here,” he said. “I’m going to follow them and see if I can spot this Bravo location.”

“Clarence, no. You’ve only got one bullet. We need to get out of here.”

“I’m not discussing this with you. I have to see what it is.”

“Fine,” Margaret said. “Then I’m going with you.”

“Margaret, G.o.ddamit, knock it off. There is some serious s.h.i.+t going down. It’s not just Ogden’s men. It’s total chaos out there. You could get hit by friendly fire. Stay here, and as soon as I make contact with someone, I’ll have Murray send people right to you.”

“I’m not leaving your side,” she said. “I don’t want to get shot at anymore, believe me, but if you go, I’m following you. So it’s your call. If you want me out of harm’s way, that’s exactly where you need to be.”

He glared at her. He looked even angrier than when she’d broken his tooth.

She glared right back.

He shook his head and sighed. “You stay behind me and be ready to run, got it?”

d.a.m.n it. She a.s.sumed he would stay with her. Well, she’d opened her mouth, and no matter what, she wasn’t letting him go alone.

“I got it,” she said. “After you.”

He walked out of the room, quickly but carefully, letting his pistol lead the way. Margaret stood and followed.

1:06 P.M.: Target Locked . . .

Dew popped up over the trunk of a Ford, fired off a burst, then ducked back down. Bullets peppered the car, hitting metal, gla.s.s and rubber. Whiskey Company had cut through most resistance up until now, but Ogden’s men seemed to have concentrated in this area. The fighting grew nastier by the second, racking up casualties—about fifteen so far. With the uncontested and constant air support, that left plenty of fighting strength to push forward. When Ogden’s men did fire, Apache chain-guns quickly ripped into their positions.

“Come on, Perry,” Dew said. “They’re digging in here. We’ve got to be close. Which G.o.dd.a.m.n direction do we go?”

Perry lay curled up half under the Ford, slush-wet pavement coating him in black winter road grime.

“I’m trying,” he said. “They’re jamming me. It’s getting bad. I think it’s Chelsea, Dew; I think that little b.i.t.c.h is doing it.”

Another burst of plings and cracks as bullets ripped into the Ford.

Dew heard the buzzing roar of a chain gun, then the firecracker-on-steroids blast of thirty-millimeter rounds tearing through brick and wood and gla.s.s.