The Grays

accomplished his objective. In a little town like Wilton, a spectacle on this scale would draw everybody who could move, and especially the kids. As he had intended.

He loped in the direction of a line of abandoned stores across the street from the elevator, and ducked down an alley. As he did so, a small fire engine came up and stopped, its horn blaring, its siren whining. It stopped beside the Volvo. As the siren ground down, firemen jumped out and examined the car. An instant later they all looked up—directly toward Mike.

His tracks, of course, his damned tracks in the snow.

He turned and ran, ducking down an alley and out into a disused rail yard. A glance backward told him that the antenna still stood, taped as it was to the tank farthest from the collapsed roof of the elevator. The transmitter would be doing its work, now, and would continue until the tank itself disintegrated.

He threaded his way across frozen tracks. He could not escape, of course, not slowed by the snow and chased by men who were not injured.

It had been Crew in there, Crew! They would find the body. With arson and murder charges against him, the Trust would disappear from his life. Worse, nobody would know for certain if the kid had survived.

CHARLES GUNN’S PHONE RANG. HE picked it up, was told by a young voice that there had just been a major explosion in Wilton. He input his code into a satellite access node on his laptop and chose the correct satellite, then zoomed until he had a clear shot of the town from above.

There was smoke pouring out of a large building. He recognized three circular storage tanks. A grain elevator. He sat staring at it for some minutes.

What might it mean? Was Mike in trouble or was he succeeding? He was not reachable by phone, so there was no way to tell.

At that moment, his six-year-old daughter came in. “Mommy says to ask if you want coffee.”

He drew his little girl close to him. As he nuzzled her flaxen hair, he punched numbers into his phone. “Mr. President,” he said, “the time is now.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, sir, we needed it some time ago.”

“And it’s going to be a purely localized thing?”

“Oh, absolutely, sir. Minimal damage.”

“Thank you, Charles.” The president hung up.

Charles looked at the phone. What did this mean? He hadn’t cancelled the order, surely. No, he would have said something to that effect… wouldn’t he?

His daughter asked, “Was that the president?”

He kissed her.

“Mommy says you’re very important. Are you very important?”

“What’s important to me is being your daddy, punkin.” He lifted her into his lap. She gazed into his eyes.

She frowned. “Are you upset, Daddy?”

He hugged his little girl.

MIKE WILKES NOTED THAT FIREMEN were not only chasing him now, they were making radio calls, and he could hear a higher-pitched siren, then another. They were getting the police.

He’d run out of options. He pulled the plane’s remote out of his pocket and activated its GPS. He stopped long enough to input the code series that brought the plane to life. At each stage, he got a positive response. It was out there, thank God, and intact. Then the ETA came in: four minutes and twelve seconds before it could reach this location. Way too long, damnit!

LAUREN WAS FAIRLY SURE THAT she could sense Conner in her mind. What was amazing about this was that he was nowhere near this base, he couldn’t be. She’d been able to perceive Adam’s mind from no more than a few feet away. “I sense something,” she said to Rob. “The boy is… agitated.”

“He’s seen the explosion. How do you feel him?”

“It’s like remembering somebody in present tense, if that makes any sense.”

“Is he in jeopardy?”

“I’m not sure. He seems agitated.”

He called Crew’s cell phone again and again got his terse recorded message. Then he phoned Pete Simpson.

“We identified Wilkes’s car. We located him in the town. I told Lewis immediately. The Mountain says that Wilkes’s car hasn’t moved from behind the grain elevator.”

Rob thanked Pete and hung up. He gazed out the window. On the horizon, there was smoke. “Look, I’m going to go into town.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Not with Mike at large. I need to get this situation into focus for me first.”

She let him go.

BEYOND THE RAIL YARD MIKE could see the center of Wilton. Cars came this way, and twenty or thirty people hurried up the broad street that crossed the rail yard and went past the elevator. At least one or two of them were bound to be among his human bombs, and they were walking right into the range of the signal that would trigger them… as indeed, was the whole community.

His bait was working efficiently. There was now little question in his mind but that the child would die.

Outside, the crowd came closer to the burning structure. Nobody could see the antenna, let alone imagine that it was there, or how extraordinarily dangerous it was.

The streams from the firemen’s hoses made sleet, which slicked the ground. Sliding, Mike ran toward the crowd, picking out a woman who was hurrying along with her daughter.

“Hi there,” he said as he trotted up to them.

Her eyes widened as she looked at him. “He’s hurt,” the little girl said.

“Oh my God—here, I’ve got my cell.” She began to rummage in her purse. A police car roared around the corner and came straight toward them across the rail yard.

He grabbed her shoulder, drew his gun, and thrust it into her face. “Shut up,” he yelled. “Don’t move!” He glared down at the little girl. “You move and your mommie gets her head blown open.”

The little girl began making a shrill, desolate noise.

Two minutes and eight seconds before the TR would arrive. Getting aboard would be a near thing. He’d have to carry the kid.

“Take it easy,” one of the two cops approaching him called.

“Don’t move an inch! One inch and she’s fucking dead!”

The woman gobbled in her throat.

The cops froze.

The little girl screamed at the cops, “Help my mommy!”

They stayed like that, and a standoff was just what he needed.

Finally, a warning warble came from the plane’s remote. Mike was brushed with warm wash from its fans. There was no frost visible, because the dehumidifiers would be working to remove every trace of moisture from that exhaust.

With a swift and controlled motion, he reached around the mother and wove his fingers through the girl’s hair. She howled and kicked and turned red as he dragged her. The remote was chiming, two discordant notes. He thumbed the hatch control.

“Jesus Christ,” one of the cops yelled as the stair came down, apparently out of clear sky. But then, of course, with the eye drawn to it, they could see the plane, a faint outline, its lines visible where the camouflage worked imperfectly. It wasn’t designed to be invisible from this close, not if you were aware of its presence.

Dragging the little girl by the hair, with her mother walking along, her hands out, begging, her eyes wild, full