Danica pulling back, her expression full of pain because she knew what was coming—what had to be coming.

The M4 rose in Dryden’s hands, all but aiming itself by muscle memory, pointing exactly where his focus had already gone.

Dryden fired.

He felt the rifle kick against his shoulder, heard the shot like a thunderclap in the closed-in space of the house—

—and saw Jack Grace’s right ankle explode inside the cuff of his pant leg.

The man screamed and pitched forward, reaching as he fell, missing Dryden and Danica by only inches as they jumped back.

Even as Grace hit the floor, he was already lurching forward, pushing with his remaining foot, coming at them like a monster in a horror flick.

Next to Dryden, Danica pivoted and threw herself out the empty frame of the window. He followed half a second behind her, turning as he passed through the opening, looking for the young guy with the Glock—but there was no sign of him now.

The two of them hit the ground at a sprint, running south into the trees, away from the gunfire and screams that filled the woods.

They ran until all the sounds were far behind them—three hundred yards or better, past houses and streets and more houses. By the time they stopped, they were close to the southern boundary of the subdivision again; they stood on the cracked remains of the last street, facing the homes that made up the outer edge.

Catching their breath, they turned in place and stared back in the direction they had come from. Nobody had followed them.

Dryden keyed the collar microphone again. “Dryden to air, are you guys seeing any of this yet?”

The speaker on his belt crackled. “We’re seeing it. Christ … They’re attacking the parked vehicles, smashing out the windows. What the fuck happened to them?”

Dryden ignored the question. “Listen to me. Get in touch with your field office right now, and have them call off the emergency responders. If regular cops and paramedics show up here, it’s going to be a nightmare. The FBI needs to get its own personnel in here and get control. These people need to be contained, and then they need treatment—with what, who the hell knows?”

“Copy that. Right, we’ll get on it—” The pilot cut himself off; Dryden could hear someone else in the chopper talking to the guy, the voice fast and frantic. “I know, I know,” the pilot said.

Dryden keyed the mike again. “What’s the problem?”

“We’re down to our reserves on fuel. We need to bug out. We can pick you up south of the woods, if you can get out in the clear right now.”