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You should be there. The Wardens are good, but John is better. If you were there, you could shift, scout, make sure that Cooper didn’t walk into an ambush.

There was nothing for it now but to wait. Wait, and hope that Cooper knew what he was doing.

Waiting was frequently part of her job, and sometimes she’d even enjoyed it. Her ability to move unseen meant that very often she was someplace she absolutely shouldn’t be, a place where one wrong move could kill her. To be honest, she enjoyed that too. Everything was brighter when it was at risk. The colors more vivid, the air sweeter.

This time, though. Lately, though. All the fun had been going out of it. What she’d once considered the great big adventure that was her life had soured. Turned grim. The decline had started with the explosion at the stock exchange this spring, when Cooper had stopped her before she could prevent it. He hadn’t known what she was doing, of course, and in truth, she doubted she could have succeeded anyway. A thousand innocent people had died that day, and many more had died since.

And if this goes pear shaped, a lot more will join them. So pay attention.

She’d never spent any time in this part of Tesla; it was all warehouses and distribution centers. There were a surprising number of civilian cars, which struck her as strange until she remembered the New Sons of Liberty. As the militia pushed forward, a huge percentage of the Holdfast population was falling back to the safety of the Vogler Ring. Tesla must be full to bursting, every hotel room booked. People would end up sleeping in gymnasiums and churches.

This side street, though, was largely deserted. Few cars, no foot traffic. She stayed out of sight anyway, her mind processing every witness, the trucker a hundred yards away watching as a team unloaded his semi, the cameras mounted on every corner—nothing she could do about those—the electric car turning down the block, the drab metal hut with a sign on the door that read, MAINT TRUNK HUB N4W7—

A door that was swinging open.

Shannon put all her focus on it, subconsciously plotting the vectors of sight, the increasing angle of the door, the human eye’s tendency to dart rather than scan, the blind spot created by the parked truck that was actually a danger zone because it would draw attention, the change of light from inside the hut to the sunny Wyoming afternoon, and confirmed that she was in the best position given what she could see now. She sent up a silent prayer that Cooper had been right, and more important, that he was okay.

Two figures stepped out. The first paused to look around, a careful, professional gaze, but she read the intentions and the directions and shifted right around it.

John Smith. Her onetime leader, her onetime friend. Behind him was a kid she didn’t recognize, thin and tall given his age. They were both filthy, clothes smudged brown, cobwebs in their hair. The boy had the clenched-leg gait of someone who really needed to pee.

Shannon stepped from the shadows of the loading dock, shouldered the shotgun, and said in a loud, clear voice, “Don’t move.”

The kid jumped, and she could see that at least some of his bladder problem had been resolved.

John, on the other hand, only stared. They were separated by fifteen feet, and she could see he was deciding whether to run.

“Don’t.” She stared down the barrel. Her finger had pressure on the trigger.

“Shannon. Of course.”

“Put your hands on your head, take two steps forward, and drop to your knees.”

“Okay.” John laced his fingers behind his head. In a conversational tone, he said, “Run, Hawk.”

“Don’t move!”

“Run.”

The kid hesitated for a second, and then spun on his heel.

She couldn’t miss at this distance. But did she want to take the shot? It would mean murdering a fleeing teenager.

More than that. It means shifting your aim from John. How many people have died because they took their eyes off him for a fraction of a second?

The boy started back into the hut. She let him go. Without releasing pressure on the trigger, she circled to put John between her and the doorway in case the kid came back with a weapon. “Another of your holy warriors?”

“Hawk? He’s a friend.”

“You don’t have friends.”

“That’s not true.” His voice was mild. “What about you?”

“Last time we spoke, another of your teenage suicide bombers was about to blow me up. Along with a trainful of civilians.”

“It wasn’t personal, you know that.” He smiled wryly. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance we could talk about this?”

“Sure there is,” she said. “As soon as you take two steps forward and hit your knees.”