Victoria lowered her voice and took a half step closer to the major, nearly nose to nose. “Please get out of my way,” she said.

“Mrs. Emerson. Victoria. This is a mistake. Get back in the car and we will wait our turn.”

“If it’s a mistake, it’s mine to make,” she said. “Your work here is done, Major.”

“Don’t tell me my job,” McCrea said. But he pivoted to his right, opening a path. “I’m going with you, though, so wait for me.”

“I have no problem with that,” Victoria said. She spun on her own axis to address her children. “Come on, boys.”

McCrea turned his attention to the driver. “First Sergeant Copley, pull this vehicle off the road so others can pass. When you’re done, I will lead the way. Keep the Emerson family in the middle and follow closely. Call out any threats.” At DEFCON 1, the only safe assumption was that everyone was a threat to everyone else. Desperate people did desperate things, and up until Victoria Emerson was safe, his job was to keep her that way.

McCrea raised his voice and gave it a command timbre. “Emerson family, from here on out, it is critical for you to do what I say. It is critical for all of you to do exactly what I say. Are there any questions?”

Victoria said nothing, and the boys shook their heads.

“Caleb and Luke, I need verbal responses, please.”

“I don’t have any questions,” Luke said.

“Me neither.”

McCrea reached back into the cab of the Suburban and withdrew his own M4. He shrugged into the battle sling and let the rifle fall against the front of his vest. “We’ll move as soon as First Sergeant Copley takes care of our vehicle.”

They watched as the first sergeant climbed behind the wheel and backed the Suburban off the pavement and over the gravel shoulder until the rear wheels were in the woods and the front wheels had a precarious purchase on the pavement. It took six or seven shifts from forward to reverse to complete the maneuver, but when he was done, plenty of room remained for other vehicles to get by.

Copley looked to be about thirty-five years old and had soldier written all over him, from the steely eyes to the rock-solid body. His uniform remained pressed even after four hours behind the wheel. “I’m ready, sir,” he pronounced when he rejoined the family.

“I want your M4 chambered, safety on,” McCrea instructed.

“I’m way ahead of you.”

“I think this security bubble around me is a little tight,” Victoria said. “You can back off some?”

“When I drop you off at the front door, I will disappear, I promise,” McCrea said.