“Spotter, Main Gate—shoot the tires,” he said. “Alpha Three, you’re overwatch on the approach.”

“Spotter,” the remote spotter said simply. “Engaging . . .”

“Three has good eyes. Three is now Archangel,” his roving watch carrying the long gun with a long-range optics package said—the report indicating he’d taken a high ground position and was ready to serve as the team’s sniper.

Fresh gunfire echoed, sharp and crisp, against the low and rolling rumble of thunder.

“Gate, Spotter—I put six rounds in tires with no effect,” the spotter reported. “They’re accelerating like mad now.”

“Check,” Sanderson said through clenched teeth. “Alpha and Bravo, stand by to engage.”

“We’re gonna stay in here?” Vance asked, the frown on his face telegraphing his thoughts on the matter.

“You mean so we can get blown up by an RPG?” Sanderson said with a crooked grin. “Nah, I was thinking we get wet outside with the rest of the team.”

“Thank you,” Vance said. “Which side you want me on?”

“West side,” he said, picking up the desk phone. “I’m going to inform the headmaster what’s going on and tell him to get the kids into the shelter.”

“Check, and I’ll radio Trinity Loop and let them know we need a QRF,” Vance said.

“We are the QRF, remember?” Sanderson said. “All the Shepherds are deployed.”

“So Morvant gambled and sent us here just in case, and now this happens?”

Sanderson nodded. “Man’s got a gift. But let the head shed know—they’ll think of something to do to support us.” He had no idea what that might be, but hopefully God would provide.

Before he could press the speed dial to the headmaster’s direct line, a loud boom echoed behind them and the power went out in the guard shack as all the perimeter spots went dark.

“Lightning strike?” Vance said, his eyes going wide.

“That was no lightning strike.” Sanderson whipped around to catch the final seconds of an orange fireball belching skyward. “I think somebody just blew up the campus electric substation.”

“You know what that means . . .”

“They’re already here,” he said, his voice catching in his throat as the words came out. He’d already split his force with the four-member Bravo team patrolling inner campus and the more experienced Trinity augments in Alpha team on perimeter and spotter duty. His guts went heavy and hot, like they were suddenly filled with molten lead as he said, “Bravo team, sound off and report your position.”

“Bravo One, in a covered position at the main entrance,” came the first reply.

“Bravo Two is in cover in the football bleachers, scanning the western tree line.”

“Bravo Four is patrolling outside the dormitories,” came the next voice.

When Bravo Three didn’t check in, Sanderson tried again, but his query was met with silence.