They broke into three groups and scuttled up the dunes. Rand’s squad would take the workers’ quarters, Weir’s the radio and control rooms. Michael’s team, the largest, would rendezvous with Greer’s to secure the Army barracks and armory. That’s where the shooting would be.

Michael pressed the radio to his mouth. “Lucius, are you in position?”

“Roger that. Waiting on your signal.”

The refinery was protected by a two-tiered fence line with guard towers; the remainder of the perimeter was a gauntlet of trip-wire mines. The only access from the north was straight through the gate. Greer would lead the frontal assault using a tanker truck equipped with a plow. A pair of trucks full of men would follow. A pickup at the rear, armed with a fifty-caliber and a grenade launcher, would dispense with the towers if need be. Michael’s orders were to avoid casualties if possible, but if it came to that…

The teams dispersed at a quick step. Michael and his men took up positions around the barracks, a long Quonset hut with doors front and rear. They were expecting fifty well-armed men inside, perhaps more.

“Team one.”

“Good to go.”

“Team two.”

“Roger that.”

Michael checked his watch: 0450. He looked at Patch, who nodded.

Michael raised his flare gun and fired. A popping flash and the compound appeared around them in blocks of light and shadow. A second later, Patch launched the gas canister from its tube. Shouts and gunfire from the gate, and then a crash as the semi plowed through the fence. Gas had begun to sift under the door of the barracks. As it flew open, Michael’s men released a barrage of grazing fire into the dirt. The fleeing soldiers lurched backward in confusion. More men were careening into them from behind, choking and coughing and sputtering.

“On your knees! Drop your weapons! Hands on your heads!”

The soldiers had nowhere to run; onto their knees they went.

“Everyone, report.”

“Team two, secure.”

“Lucius?”

“No casualties. Headed your way.”

“Team one?”

Michael’s men had moved forward to wrap the soldiers’ wrists and ankles with heavy cord. Most were still coughing, a few vomiting helplessly.

“Team one, report.”

A grainy crackle of static; then, a voice, not Rand’s: “Secure.”

“Where’s Rand?”

A pause, followed by laughter. “You’ll have to give him a minute. That woman sure packs a wallop.”

—

It had been too easy. Michael had expected more of a fight—any kind of fight.

“These guns are practically empty.”

Greer showed him; none of the soldiers’ magazines had more than two rounds.

“What about the armory?”

“Clean as a whistle.”

“That’s actually not so good.”

From Greer, a tight nod. “I know. We’ll have to do something about that.”

It was Rand who brought Lore to him. Her wrists were bound. At the sight of him she startled, then quickly composed herself.

“I guess you missed me, Michael?”

“Hello, Lore.” Then, to Rand: “Take those off.”

Rand cut her loose. Lore had nailed him with a hard right cross. His left eye was half-shut, his cheek marked with the imprint of her fist. Michael felt almost proud.

“Let’s go someplace and talk,” he said.

He led Lore into the station chief’s office. Her office: for fifteen years, the refinery had been Lore’s to run. Michael sat behind the desk to make a point; Lore sat across from him. The day had broken, warming the room with its light. She looked older, of course, aged by sun and work, but the raw physicality was still there, the strength.

“So how’s your pal Dunk?”

Michael smiled at her. “It’s good to see you. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“I mean it.”

She glanced away, a furious look on her face. “Michael, what do you want?”

“I need fuel. Heavy diesel, the dirty stuff.”

“Going into the oil business? It’s a hard life—I don’t recommend it.”

He took a long breath. “I know this doesn’t make you happy. But there’s a reason.”

“Is that right?”

“How much do you have?”

“You know what I always liked best about you, Michael?”

“No, what?”