“Uh-huh,” agreed Top. It was a lie, though. Their captain spent as much time being stitched and splinted as the rest of the team put together. And they all knew that he was half crazy. Maybe more than half crazy. No one had the details, but rumors had leaked out in DMS circles that Captain Ledger had a party going on in his head. Not that it mattered to them. As far as Top was concerned, the captain could have the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing “Ave Maria” in his head and it didn’t change a thing. Ledger was their captain and their friend, and they’d follow him into hell. Top thought about that and smiled ruefully. They had followed him into hell.

His earbud buzzed and he tapped it. “Go for Sergeant Rock.”

“Sit rep,” said Mr. Church crisply.

“Sir, all quiet on the western front. Waiting on Chatterbox and Cowboy.”

“Give me a status report on combat readiness,” interrupted Church.

Top winced and almost cursed aloud. He was bone weary, and he ached for a hot bath, a cold beer, and twenty hours of sleep. Preferably with someone curvy, brown, and warm snuggled up against him.

“Always ready to rock and roll, sir,” he said with energy in his voice that was a total fabrication. “What’s the op?”

Khalid and Bunny shot him looks that went from inquisitive to surprised to murderous in the space of a second. Top spread his hands in a “what can I tell you” gesture.

Bunny bowed his head and sighed. “Oh, man…”

“We are at Firehall One,” said Church. That rocked Top and slapped all the fatigue from his nerves. Firehall was DMS combat code for a nuclear threat.

“Jesus…”

“Acknowledge,” snapped Mr. Church.

Top stiffened and the others caught the sudden jerk of his body. They clustered around him.

“Acknowledge Firehall One, sir,” said Top, and the others exchanged stunned looks. “Echo Team is ready to respond.”

“Then listen closely,” said Church. “Time is critical…”

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-One

The Kingdom of Shadows

Beneath the Sands

One Year Ago

The King of Thorns rose from his chair and loomed above Hugo Vox. In the dense shadows pale figures crept closer, surrounding Vox with burning red eyes and hungry mouths.

Vox turned in a slow circle, looking at the twisted figures. Some were vastly old, with crooked bodies and crippled limbs; some had the blank moon faces of deeply inbred retardation; but seeded throughout the crowd were creatures like Grigor. Taller, whole, and powerful, their skin the color of milk, their eyes blazing with intelligence and an unnatural vitality that seemed to burn into Vox, threatening to steal away his life and breath.

Vox held up the detonator. “Careful now,” he murmured in a ghost of a voice. “Let’s all be very, very careful.”

“I am not afraid of your bomb,” sneered Grigor. “The Upierczi do not fear death.”