Nodding, Danica moved back with him. They turned and picked their way over the floor toward the south side of the house, watching for holes and rotted boards. They had almost reached an empty window frame on the far wall when Danica froze in place; she was staring at something just out of Dryden’s view past the window’s edge. He went dead still beside her.

Then he heard it: the scrabbling of hands and feet, pushing dry leaves around, right outside somewhere. A moment later the figure staggered into view: an agent no more than twenty-five, with close-cropped hair. He took another step and then stumbled and fell, and as he got back up, his holstered Glock fell free and landed in the dirt. For whatever reason, the weapon drew the man’s attention. Maybe there was just enough brain function to recognize the gun as something important. The guy stooped and got a hold of the thing, his hand going habitually to the grip—and his finger touching the trigger.

When he stood upright again, he was directly in front of the window frame, facing sideways down the outer wall of the house. All he had to do was swivel his head, and he would see them. They were less than ten feet from where the man stood.

For maybe five seconds the moment lingered. Dryden mentally rehearsed raising the M4 and drilling the guy through the head—the safest move against someone already holding a live weapon.

He would take the shot if he had to. There was no question of that. But—

But holy hell, the morality of it was impossible to square with. He didn’t want to think about it.

For another long-held breath, the man just stood there, reeling in place. Then his balance faltered and he jerked forward, and like that he was out of view past the window’s edge. Dryden listened to him shambling away down the outside wall.

Danica exhaled slowly, the sound of it carrying a tremor. She turned to Dryden—and flinched hard at something in her peripheral vision. She jerked her head toward the front of the house, where they had stood earlier. She only just stopped herself from screaming.

Dryden turned fast, the rifle coming around, the stock going automatically to his shoulder.

Jack Grace stood outside the empty window frame on the north wall, his eyes wild and locked on the two of them. In one violent move he lunged through the window frame and landed inside on the flooring, already throwing himself forward toward them.

Dryden could feel the situation playing out in each of its awful details, fractional second by fractional second. The feeling was old and familiar to him; in his former line of work he had experienced it a thousand times.

He saw it all, not in slow-motion but in perfect clarity:

Grace pounding toward them across the rotted wood.