“Glad you’re alive,” she says brusquely.

Walker’s gray-streaked red hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looks exhausted, heavy bags under both of her eyes. At some point she traded in her customary FBI Windbreaker and pantsuit for a Kevlar vest and fatigues, probably borrowed from the large army contingent securing this area. Her left arm is in a sling, and there’s a hastily bandaged gash on her forehead.

“Do you want me to heal those?” I ask.

In response, Walker takes a look around. The two of us are alone for the moment, standing in the small park tucked under the Brooklyn Bridge. Or rather, alone as one can get in what’s basically become a refugee camp overnight. The hilly lawn behind us is cluttered with makeshift tents, wounded and frightened New Yorkers packed in tight. I guess these are the people who refused to be evacuated by the Red Cross, or else are too injured to make the trip. The tents spread out into the surrounding blocks, and I’m sure there are people squatting in the fancy riverfront apartment buildings nearby. Interspersed throughout the survivors, keeping order and tending to the wounded, are soldiers, cops and a few medics, just a small part of the force of thousands I saw gathered closer to the bridge. It’s essentially organized chaos.

“Those powers of yours have limits?” Walker asks, watching as a woman sprawled in the park’s grass has her severely burned arm treated by a harried doctor.

“Yeah. I hit them pretty hard yesterday,” I reply, rubbing the back of my neck. “Why do you ask?”

“Because much as I appreciate the offer, we’ve got thousands of injured here, John, with more trickling in every hour. You want to spend your whole day patching people up?”

I stare out over the rows of people in the park, many of them resting on nothing more than grass. A lot of them are watching me. I’m still not comfortable with this, being the face of the Garde. I turn back to Walker.

“I could,” I say. “It would save some lives.”

Walker shakes her head and gives me a level look. “The badly injured are in the triage tent. We can stop by later if you want to do the whole Mother Teresa thing. But you and I both know there are better ways to be spending your time.”

I don’t reply, but I don’t press the issue any further. Walker grunts and walks along the pier, heading towards a collection of army tents set up in a nearby plaza. I take another quick look around the park. Crossing over the bridge, things looked pretty secure. Back here, though, it’s absolute madness. Injured people, soldiers, military officials—I don’t even know where to begin. I might be in over my head.

“So, you’re in charge here?” I ask Walker, attempting to get my bearings.

She snorts. “You’re kidding, right? There are five-star generals on the scene planning counteroperations. The CIA and the NSA are here, coordinating with people in Washington, trying to make sense of the intel that’s coming in from around the world. They had the president on video conference earlier this afternoon from whatever bunker the Secret Service spirited him off to. I’m just an FBI agent, very much not in charge.”

“Okay, if that’s the case, why did they bring me to you, Walker? Why are we talking?”

Walker stops and turns to me, her hands on her hips. “Because of our history, our relationship—”

“That’s what you’re calling it?”

“I’ve been named your liaison, John. Your point of contact. Anything you can tell us about the Mogadorians, their tactics, this invasion—that goes through me. Likewise for any requests you might have of the U.S. armed forces.”

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. I wonder where the generals are set up. I scan the nearby tents, looking for one that appears more important than the others.

“No offense, Walker, but I don’t need you as a go-between.”

“Not up to you,” she replies, resuming her walk along the pier. “You have to understand that the people in charge, the president, his generals, what’s left of his cabinet—they weren’t MogPro people. When the Mogs made contact, we almost had a glorified coup on our hands with the MogPro scum advocating surrender. Luckily, with Sanderson out of the picture—”

“Hold up. What happened to him?” I ask. I lost track of the secretary of defense during the battle with Setrákus Ra.

“He didn’t make it,” Walker replies grimly. “I had enough people in Washington to get rid of most of the bad apples. The ones we knew about, at least.”

“So you’re saying MogPro is mostly gone and we’re left with . . .”

“A fractured government that’s been kept totally in the dark. This invasion, the idea of aliens from outer space attacking us, it’s all new to them. They accept that you’re fighting on our side. But you’re still an extraterrestrial.”

“They don’t trust me,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“Most of them don’t even trust each other anymore. And anyway, you shouldn’t trust them,” Walker replies emphatically. “The known members of MogPro have all been arrested, killed or gone underground. But that doesn’t mean we got them all.”

I give Walker a look, rolling my eyes. “So better for me to stick with the devil I know, huh?”

She opens her arms, obviously not really expecting me to hug her. “That’s right.”

“All right, here’s my first request, liaison,” I say. “The Anubis—that’s the warship that left New York this morning—it’s carrying Setrákus Ra and is on its way to Mexico—”