Victoria Emerson first focused on him, but then her eyes widened as she saw the soldiers he’d brought with him. Her blank expression showed the enormity of it all. “Is this really real?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, it is. You’ve got five minutes to get your stuff together.”

The United States was at war. DEFCON 1. Release of nuclear weapons imminent.

“I–I don’t know that I can be ready that quickly.”

McCrea had expected that. And he had an answer. “Ma’am, I have orders. I’m taking you to safety. You do not have a vote in this.” He splayed his fingers. “Five minutes.”

The congresswoman spun on her heel and made a beeline to the split-level staircase of their modest Arlington, Virginia, home. McCrea figured it had to be a rental.

“Luke!” she yelled. “Caleb! Out here, right now.” She disappeared upstairs. “Luke and Caleb, now!”

Doors opened and adolescents protested in unison: “Mom!”

“How about a knock?” one of them said. His voice had changed. McCrea heard the teenage self-righteousness loud and clear.

“Both of you,” Mrs. Emerson said. “Grab your go bags and be ready in three minutes.”

“I’ve got a math test tomorrow. Can’t I skip this one?”

“No,” she said. Her tone left no room for discussion. “We do these things for a reason. And I wager that math had nothing to do with the way you snapped that computer shut so quickly.”

“You heard me, Luke?”

“I’m doing it now,” a younger voice said. “Where are we going this time?”

“Three minutes,” she repeated.

He heard the sounds of hangers scraping on closet rods and of thumping against the walls. The go-bag reference had not been lost on him. It’s as if she’d been preparing for the moment.

“I hate bug-out drills!” the older boy yelled.

His mother yelled back, “I don’t care!”

A good-looking blond-haired kid of about thirteen materialized at the top of the stairs. He wore a long-sleeve shirt, jeans and hiking boots. He’d shrugged a good-size jungle camouflaged rucksack onto his back. Maybe a little too heavy for him, but he seemed to be handling it okay. “I’m ready!” he announced.

The boy trotted down the stairs, then stopped short when he noticed McCrea in the foyer. He slung the ruck off his back and started reaching for what McCrea now recognized to be a taken-down Ruger 10/22 rifle. “Mom!” he yelled.

McCrea backpedaled a couple of steps and held out his hands, fingers splayed. “Whoa, whoa,” he said. “Easy there, cowboy. I’m the good guy. Which one are you? Caleb or Luke?”

“Mom!”