The target is a privately owned complex off Brighton Third Street between Ocean View Avenue and Brighton Beach Avenue. The compound includes a corner cigar and candy store, a social club adjoining; a preschool with four classrooms (in temporary buildings) with an adjacent playground featuring swings, sandboxes, jungle gyms, and an “ocean wave”; an office in the school proper; and a residence complex, like a small motel. Surrounding the compound on the nonstreet sides is a seven-foot perimeter wall topped by razor wire. Primary entry is off Brighton Third, via a two-vehicle-wide steel gate chain-locked on the inside. The ESU guys, prepping, reassure each other by saying, “No problem. It’s just like Afghanistan.”

I’m trotting behind Manning. Rain descends in torrents. My trousers have been bloused into my boots and sealed with duct tape (so they won’t catch or snag on anything). I’ve got lampblack under my eyes. I’m drenched in sweat. Meanwhile, we’re on an actual street, Brighton Fourth, one long block north of the elevated train line. Incredibly, people are out in the storm. We pass two kids, no older than twelve, in T-shirts and wading boots. “Who are you guys—the army?” says one. Manning chases them off.

We turn a corner into an alley. It’s just me and Manning now. We’re wearing wireless headsets with mikes. In my right ear I can hear the chatter from the assault teams moving into position out front, from the sniper team on the rooftop of the Orthodox church across the avenue, as well as the comms truck, our DivSix teams moving into blocking positions, and the guys from the Six-Oh sealing off the neighborhood.

Manning leads the way over the fence. He’s a nimble bastard for fifty or whatever the hell age he is. We drop on the far side. We’re in an alley behind the preschool. It’s dark. No lights. The ESU operators have NVGs, night vision goggles. The rest of us are stuck with our own orbs. Manning dashes past a jungle gym and around several sandboxes sluicing stormwater to a door at the rear of the preschool.

He points to a spot.

Our position.

I take it. Manning himself scoots off to scope the alley. According to our brief, there is only one door, a rear egress of the school, which we will cover together. But when Manning returns from his look-see, he signs that he has found a second exit around the corner.

He will cover it.

He indicates the first door.

My door.

MANNING

You okay, Dewey?

ME

I’m cool.

MANNING

Don’t fuck around.

ME

I’m cool.

Manning takes one step, then draws up. The sense is palpable that one or both of us could buy the farm sometime in the next few minutes.

MANNING

Whatever happens, stand your ground.

He raps my shoulder, then bolts to his station around the corner.

I’m alone.

Am I scared?

Fuck, yes.