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“Enough,” President Ramirez said, and an aide quickly cut the sound. “Owen, how quickly can we intervene?”

“Madam President, we can’t.”

“Bad enough when the New Sons were burning abandoned cities. Now they’re using children as mine detectors. I want American troops in there—”

“Ma’am, we can’t.” Leahy caught his tone, quickly reeled it back in. “The militia is only five miles out of Tesla. We simply cannot get a sizable enough military presence there in time.”

“What about drone strikes, or tactical bombardment? Even just as a warning, to turn them around.”

“Most of those capabilities have been disabled on your orders, ma’am.”

“Re-enable them.”

“That would take time. And it would be a terrible risk. The only way we could intervene would require using the same technologies Epstein’s virus took advantage of. Simply put, if it’s more advanced than a bayonet, it might be turned against us.”

“Why would the Holdfast do that? We’d be coming to their aid.”

“Frankly, ma’am, I doubt they’d believe that. I certainly wouldn’t, in their position. You’d be asking a man who killed seventy-five thousand soldiers and blew up the White House to let you bring your deadliest weapons into his living room to ‘protect’ him. Besides”—he gestured at the tri-d—“they already have defenses. The Vogler Ring isn’t a minefield, it’s a microwave emplacement. Casualties won’t weaken it.”

“Meaning that even if the New Sons march children into it to burn alive, they still won’t breach it.”

“It’s horrific, but it’s not our defense grid, and it’s not our army. Think of it like it’s happening on the far side—” Leahy’s phone vibrated. There was no name, but he recognized the number immediately. He should; it belonged to a radiation-shielded cell he’d delivered himself. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I need to take this.”

“Go. DAR, what’s your view—”

Leahy rose swiftly and headed for the door. Leaving was a breach of protocol, but he was betting no one would call him on it under the circumstances. He kept his eyes down and his steps quick through the door, past the Secret Service agents, down the hall, and outside.

Camp David had a winter wonderland look, all evergreens and Christmas lights and fresh powder. The network of paved paths had been shoveled and salted, but there were too many people on them. Leahy stepped off the porch toward the woods, his leather oxfords sinking into the snow as he accepted the call and said, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What we said we would.”

Leahy froze. That’s not Sam Miller. He checked the phone display; the number was correct. The voice was one he’d heard before. It took him a moment to place it—Luke Hammond, the lean soldier with the killer’s eyes. “We never discussed taking children hostage. Or using them to try to break through the Vogler Ring.”

“We’re doing what’s necessary.”

“Necessary for what? I told you, genocide isn’t the goal.” Why does no one get that? There was a balance to be maintained, a utility to conflict, so long as it was held in check. The political scientist Thomas Schelling had pinpointed that back in 1966, when he’d written that the power to hurt—the unacquisitive, unproductive power to destroy things that somebody treasures, to inflict pain and grief—was a kind of bargaining power. Arguably the most foundational statement of geopolitics, and yet some days it seemed like Leahy was the only person to understand that the word was

hurt, not obliterate. “We don’t want to destroy the Holdfast. We just want to bring Epstein to—”

“That’s your goal. The New Sons of Liberty aren’t part of your army. We’re patriots fighting for our nation’s future.”

“Come on. Wake up. Chest beating is for football games. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends,’ is not a real-world policy.”

There was a long pause. “Mr. Secretary, you’re talking to a career soldier with forty years of special operations experience. Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Leahy leaned against a tree and rubbed his eyes so hard they hurt. “I’d like to talk to General Miller.”

“He’s busy.”

“Put him on, please.”

“He’s busy.”

Leahy imagined having the power to reach through the phone and wrap his hands around the man’s neck and squeeze until his eyeballs bulged. What was Miller thinking, going off the reservation and then not even answering the phone? You’re losing control of the situation. “Luke. May I call you Luke? We don’t know each other well, but I was a soldier too.”

“I know, Mr. Secretary. Four whole years, right?”

“Followed by decades in intelligence before serving as the secretary of defense to three presidents,” Leahy snapped. He caught himself, took a breath. “It should go without saying that I respect your service. You’re right, you are patriots. But now the patriotic thing to do is stop. You’re risking civil war.”

“We’re not risking it. We’re declaring it. And we’re going to win.”