Page 129 (1/2)

. . . then she was gone.

And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he’d never get her back, not unless she wanted it to happen. She had become too powerful.

“I lost her,” Perry said. “I lost Chelsea.”

1:16 P.M.: Bravo Positions, Part Two

Margaret crouched at the base of a small abandoned building, watching dust roil through the air around her. A block away, the Globe building had just exploded and collapsed, sending a thick dust cloud rolling through the abandoned lots. She wondered if the cloud carried the contagion—but she and Clarence were safe in their suits. The sticky tape on her hands would keep the glove cuts sealed. A white-trash version of BSL-4 safety, but it worked nonetheless.

Clarence moved along the sidewalk. His right shoulder stayed close to the graffiti-covered brick wall, but he didn’t touch it—she had warned him about sliding across anything, even leaning on things for cover should he wind up in a shoot-out. The tough hazmat suit could still tear if dragged across any jagged metal.

Helicopters soared overhead, guns fired, explosions made the ground vibrate—war had come to Detroit.

Clarence peeked around the corner. He watched for a few seconds, then reached back and gently pulled her hand, urging her forward until she could see for herself. Down the block, on the other side of the intersection, stood yet another abandoned building. A corner unit, battered front door opening out at an angle toward the intersection of Franklin and Riopelle. Light gray, two stories, boarded-up windows; it looked like an old restaurant or bar, maybe a corner store from decades past when this area had more buildings than abandoned lots.

“That’s where the gunmen took the hostages,” he said.

“What’s in there?”

“I don’t know. If the gate is gone, Ogden has to know it’s over, that he lost. He filled the building with hostages so we can’t drop a big f.u.c.king bomb on his a.s.s.”

“Or maybe they’re trying to convert those people? Infect them?”

“Maybe,” Clarence said. “Maybe some of them, but it makes more sense to have regular people as hostages. Otherwise they have no negotiating power.”

“What do we do now?”

“We’ve got to get help. Listen, you watch where those soldiers went in, and don’t move. Ogden’s headquarters blew; our guys had to cause that. I’ll slide around to the other side of this building—the gunmen can’t spot me from there—see if I can flag down our guys and get them over here.”

Clarence slowly ducked away from the corner. Margaret knelt and watched. Every twenty seconds or so, a car drove through the settling dust, full of people hunting for a place to hide. When they saw her or Clarence, saw their biohazard suits, the cars instantly sped up to get away. The faces inside looked terrified, sh.e.l.l-shocked. Nothing she could do for these people, not without making a scene, making herself visible to the gunmen in the building across the street. She silently prayed that all the cars would just keep driving.

Then, coming up Riopelle from the direction of the river, a motorcycle. A squat one, American and loud, kicking up a low cloud of the still-falling dust. A man driving, someone behind him, someone small.

“Keep going,” Margaret whispered. “Don’t stop here, keep driving.”

The motorcycle stopped right in front of the hostage building.

Margaret tensed. She couldn’t let those people go inside. They got off the bike, and Margaret saw the small person was a little girl with curly hair.