“We need to get the fuck out of here, and our ride is off comms,” he said. “I’m gonna suggest we hitch with the RAP. We’re their guests, they’ll make room for us. But if you’d rather drag ass I know a safe neighborhood about six miles into the city. We could probably hire a ride there.”

“It looks like they’re a little short of room as-is,” said the Brit. “Those tracks can’t hold more than twenty or thirty people each.”

Manny smiled a little, “Twenty-four. But that’s just if you’re attached to things like ‘seats.’”

Ten minutes later, Reggie and Manny clung to the hood of the track as it barreled down the broken streets of ciudad de muerta, bound for a staging area in Deep Ellum. The fighting sounded much closer by the time they left. Manny guessed the small-arms fire couldn’t be more than a couple of blocks away. He and the journalist held on with white knuckles and tried not to linger long on what would happen if they lost their grip.

“The Martyrs are past the command post!” the Brit shouted in sudden realization. His voice strained to be audible over the roar of engines. “Holy shit, they have to be, right?”

Manny thought about the geography for a moment. It was possible the Martyrs had only broken through in a few chunks of the line. But that would mean DeShawn and the others were alive and surrounded or fleeing. Those were the best case scenarios.

“I think we might be fucked,” Manny said, stunned by the realization. For the last year Major Clark had been his most reliable source in the SDF. That post had seemed immovable, impregnable for its significance in his little chunk of the world.

The track creeped slowly. Parked facing them were two smaller, armored SDF tracks with swiveling cannons on their roofs. Soldiers scurried around them. They pulled sections of thin, frosted gray Stihl­glass barricades off the vehicles and started setting them up to form a new defensive line. Manny watched two militiawomen wrestle with a large olive-green case covered in boxy Cyrillic script. They pried it open and Manny saw a huge metal tube and what looked like a lot of antique optical equipment. It was probably an old wire-guided missile launcher, something that had been an antique before the Revolution. He’d never seen the SDF use anything that old. They had drones half this size that carried even more firepower.

Had them yesterday, at least, he thought.

The track slowed to a cautious stop and honked. Manny glanced back at the driver. She had her hands in the air in a universal “Please don’t shoot us” gesture. Two of the soldiers peeled off from their efforts and approached, weapons in hand but not aimed. The driver opened her door and shouted something down at them. One of the men responded and gestured vaguely downtown.