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Leahy sat quietly. It was a trick he’d developed over the years: fingers on the table, eyes steady but slightly unfocused, like he was performing complex mental calculations. Make them wait. It was particularly effective at managing people who were used to immediate answers to their questions—like presidents. Just before the silence grew uncomfortable, he spoke. “Madam President, I don’t think we should.”

“Explain.”

“Sometimes the best defense is keeping your opponent off-balance. NSOL represents an opportunity to do that.”

“If I make the decision to attack the Holdfast, it will be with United States soldiers.”

“The public is already vocal in their desire for a response. After today’s tragedy, they will demand we strike back. The New Sons allow us to do that without limiting our options.”

“Mob rule is not our way.”

“Stopping the militia will be seen as a demonstration of weakness.” Before she could respond, he added, “There’s also the fact that we can’t.”

President Ramirez raised one eyebrow.

Choose your words carefully. “The retrograde of military forces leaves us in an awkward position.” Looks danced around the room, everyone catching the subtle jab. Ramirez had ordered the retrograde, and though Leahy hadn’t said as much, the hint of blame wasn’t hard to catch.

“Are you saying that our military isn’t currently capable of stopping a crowd of civilians?”

“I’m saying, ma’am, that any incursion into the Holdfast has a good chance of being perceived as an attack. Even if our only purpose is to turn back the militia, there is no way Epstein can be sure of that. Not only that, but the retrograde isn’t complete. There are still numerous vulnerabilities in our armed forces.” Leahy gestured to the tri-d where live footage of the DAR complex ran. The ruined building looked like God had stomped on it. Choking smoke rose from a hundred places, and bodies were strewn everywhere. “Today is a reminder of what abnorms are capable of. If we corner Epstein, there’s no guarantee that he won’t launch an all-out attack.”

He thought about adding more, decided against it. After a long moment, Ramirez turned back to the screens.

Leahy didn’t let himself smile. He wouldn’t have wished for the events of the day, but he could use them. The terrorists continued to miss the point. The more damage they wrought, the more they strengthened the position of men like him. Ramirez had basically ordered the DAR to chase their tails playing defense, and in the meantime, left the field open to those who could see that no game was ever won on defense alone.

Even now, the New Sons of Liberty were pushing deeper into the Holdfast. The drone bombardment hadn’t stopped them; Epstein’s bluff had failed. What came next wouldn’t be pretty, but it would be effective.

You’re going to have your war. The war America needs. Focused, contained, and crucial.

And when it’s over, you’ll still be standing—atop the heap.

CHAPTER 20

Cooper couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here.

At first he’d tried to convince himself that the dropped call was just that. A digital glitch. But even as he’d frantically redialed, he was remembering the explosion of glass, the fist of smoke.

The screams.

A video call might freeze. The image might distort. But this . . .

After five failed retries, he’d started running. His head was packed with thoughts of his team: The time Luisa had taken three rounds in her vest on a raid, how at the bar that night they couldn’t get her to keep her shirt on, she just kept hiking it up to display the bruises, saying, “Would you look at my tit!” Valerie’s voice in his ear, only weeks ago, saying that she had outplanned John Smith’s security team, beaten them with their own system, the quiet pride in herself.

And Bobby. His partner. Cooper had never had a flesh-and-blood brother, but a cop’s partner was his brother. They’d been drunk together, hungover together, worked through both of their divorces together. Kicked in doors together. Taken down a corrupt president together.

An explosion and a fist of smoke. And screaming. In true pain or true panic, socialization fell away, and men and women shrieked the same. Could have been any of them. Could have been all of them.

He’d found himself in Epstein’s subterranean sanctuary, dark and cool, smelling of processed food and lit by images of horror. Video feeds from all over the country showed a nation consumed by madness. A limousine facedown in a black river. A police station with a half-overturned semitrailer sticking out of it. A raging fire consuming a complex of offices. SWAT teams firing tear gas rounds through the shattered windows of a government building.