Reflexively, he slipped into four-count tactical breathing as the two enemy APVs cruised down the access road at a controlled, cautious speed. He felt uncharacteristically nervous and had to force his mind to stay focused on the moment, because the tug of the unknown behind him on the campus was doing a number on his psyche. It had taken all his willpower not to charge headfirst into the school in a frantic search for Sarah Beth after the LALO. The only thing that had stopped him was the knowledge that St. George’s was no regular school. The staff trained constantly to safeguard their kids, and the school had robust shelter-in-place bunkers. Pastor Dee had once joked that you could drop a bomb on the school and the kids would be okay.

He prayed she was right.

“One, Mother—just wanted to let you know thermal sweep of the school in progress,” Nisha said as if tuned in to his train of thought.

“What do you see?”

“Looks like staff and students are sheltering in place. We’re only getting a half-dozen scattered singles and a cluster of four. My guess is these are kids who didn’t make it into the bunkers. The school has a tornado shelter and the underground TOC. Both of those structures are hardened and too thermally insulated for the drone’s sensors to penetrate, but that’s the only place they could all be.”

“Check. What about roaming shooters in the halls?”

“We’re not seeing any . . . still looking.”

“Thanks for the update, Mother,” he said with relief.

He watched as the two incoming APVs slowed on the last half mile approach, assessing the battlefield. With ten shooters in this second wave assault force, Jed and his team were outnumbered. Against a ragtag group of militia or conscripted terrorists, that number wouldn’t bother him, but these guys were trained operators. Worse, if they were all demon possessed, then the probability of Jed’s team emerging victorious was terrifyingly low.

The lead APV braked to a stop twenty feet from the burning Charger and turned on its headlights and roof-mounted spotlights, illuminating everything in a fifty-yard arc. The dash-mounted radio in the APV where Jed was sheltering crackled to life:

“Razor, this is Stiletto—do you copy?” a gruff male voice said. When no reply came, the caller tried again. “Razor, this is Stiletto—sitrep.”

Jed flipped his own radio to VOX and tightened his grip on his rifle.

Get ready . . .