A caravan of trucks and a Goldwing with a man and woman on board came around a wide bend in the road, going at a good clip. He looked at the Ford behind him, thick black smoke billowing from beneath the hood, and watched the shooter jerk the Ford hard to the right and peel off onto an unpaved country road he hadn’t even noticed. He knew then they had to be locals, but he’d known that already.

Savich slowed and Sherlock fired another full clip after them, but they disappeared into a cloud of whirling dirt from the road. He had to wait for the spurt of traffic to pass, then he turned the Camry in a tight U and came in behind an old SUV, the last of the traffic he’d just let pass. All the vehicles had slowed and were rubbernecking, trying to see that smoking car. He laid his palm on the horn and got the finger in return. Finally he reached the country road and turned a sharp left onto the dirt road.

Sherlock was still hanging out the window, her hair whipping around her head. She jerked back inside. “There, Dillon, behind that stand of trees on your left. They didn’t get far.”

He saw the black smoke before he saw the car. He braked fast and hard, closer than he wanted. Sherlock was out the door while the tires were still trying to grip the dirt.

“Careful,” he shouted, pulled his SIG, and went out the driver’s side, bent low, his eyes on the car.

The Ford exploded. No time, no time. The burst of heat singed their hair, seared the air itself, and the blast concussion hurled them backward. Savich grabbed her as they went down, protecting her as best he could, and rolled with her beneath the back of the Camry as burning pieces of the Ford rained down around them.

Sherlock, coughing and trying to suck in air at the same time, finally managed to whisper against his shoulder, “I really didn’t mean to, but guess I got the gas tank. You think those guys are still inside?”

“Yeah, probably,” he said. “Don’t move.” There were still hot flames and foul-smelling smoke gushing upward like black geysers, pieces of the car still hissing and exploding off the frame in the heat, setting nearby bushes on fire. Then there was silence, absolute silence.

Savich slowly eased from beneath the car, came up on his elbow over her, and studied her black face and the cut along her hairline, snaking a line of blood down her cheek. He touched the cut, saw it was superficial, and drew a deep breath.

“I’m okay, Dillon. How about you?” She was grinning at him, teeth whiter than his shirt had been before the explosion.

“I’m fine, but you’re hurt.”

“Just a little cut. My hair will soak it up. You’re okay?”

He consulted his body parts, nodded. “Do I look as bad as you do?”

“Yeah, but you know, kind of black-ops sexy.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the cut. It was indeed as shallow as he’d thought, nothing much really, thank you, God. He realized he’d been shaking. It had been too close, simply too close, and here she was cracking a joke. He grabbed her and pulled her hard against him on the ground, pressing her into his shoulder.

“I’m all right. Come on, Dillon, I don’t want to, but we have to check to see if those guys are still in the car.”

He wanted to hold her for at least another hour and breathe fresh air, tons of it, but fresh air would be in short supply here for a while, and the shooters could have gotten out of the car. He gave her a final squeeze, then they slowly got to their feet.

“Careful,” he said. SIGs drawn, they made their way to the smoking ruin of the car.

Sherlock stepped around a burning running shoe with a foot in it and swallowed bile, swallowed again when she felt the heave coming. There was a smell of burned flesh mixed with the foul smell of burning plastic and gasoline. When she got ahold of herself, she said, “I guess they didn’t get out.”

Through the smoke they saw blackened remains huddled together in what was left of the front seat. Two men.

Savich pulled out his cell and called the Atlanta field office. “Beau? Savich. Sherlock and I have got ourselves a pretty gnarly situation here.”

And he told the SAC, Beau Chumley, what had happened.

He said to Sherlock, “Guess we’re not going to get to have dinner with the Children of Twilight.”

They waited in their car, cleaned up as best as they could with water from Sherlock’s fizzy water bottle. Savich tried Ethan several times but no go—no cell service that far out in the wilderness. He knew this, yet he tried once again. Then he looked at his wife and said slowly, “I’m dumb as dirt. I forgot about Autumn. Let’s see if I can reach her.” He closed his eyes and pictured her face in his mind.