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f.u.c.k. Dew shoved the satphone into his flak jacket, then thumbed the transmit b.u.t.ton on his helmet mike. “Nails, Nails, come in, over.”

Dew heard the response in his helmet’s earphones. “Nails here. What are your orders?”

“Building at the corner of Orleans and At.w.a.ter,” Dew said. “That’s the target. Get in there right now, kill everything that moves. We have four minutes to secure that building or they’re going to drop a bomb that will level about five square blocks.”

“Yessir!”

Dew looked at Perry. “Well, kid, you ready?”

“No,” Perry said. “Not even close.”

Dew slapped him on the shoulder. “Tell you what. We go out there, we get this bulls.h.i.+t done, and then tomorrow you and I go fis.h.i.+ng. How about that?”

Perry stared at him for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”

Maybe Dew’s daughter wouldn’t go fis.h.i.+ng, but Perry was probably the closest thing he’d ever have to a son.

1:11 P.M.: Hostages

Following the three gunmen turned out to be much easier than Margaret had thought possible, for a very disturbing reason. They had run back to the eight-laned Jefferson Avenue, turned west and started collecting hostages. Herding them along at gunpoint, like cattle. Sixteen so far. Women, children, a few men. Some people had resisted—and had been gunned down instantly. A few had shot back, men in their twenties and thirties, firing handguns and even one shotgun. g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers, maybe. They didn’t stand a chance. The body-armor-clad soldiers worked as a team, moved as a unit and gunned down any resistance. They even collected the resisters’ weapons, leaving nothing behind.

Margaret and Clarence followed at a distance, staying out of sight, feeling completely helpless. Clarence kept cursing in a low growl. He wanted to kill those men. So did Margaret, but Clarence still had only one bullet.

Attacking the gunmen would be suicide, plain and simple. There was nothing he could do but wait for an opportunity. So he followed, and Margaret stayed by his side.

1:12 P.M.: . . . and Fire

Perry didn’t know jack s.h.i.+t about military tactics, but as a football player he knew great team play when he saw it. Right before Dew called in the attack on the old factory building, Perry could spot maybe four Whiskey Company soldiers. They popped up, shot, dropped back down, moved from one spot of cover to the next. They grabbed wounded comrades and civilians alike, dragging them to safety. Fifteen seconds after Dew’s call to Nails, Perry saw at least two dozen soldiers. They seemed to materialize out of nowhere, charging forward, shooting at the Globe building’s boarded-up windows. The building grew hazy as bullets pounded bricks into little puffy tan clouds. Perry’s helmet radio buzzed with the excited talk of soldiers on the attack.

“Sniper, third floor!”