Juba lost a second to amazement, then his combat brain took over. He turned, knocked the glazier to the ground, and said, “Stay for police.”

They were halfway out of the dome, on the long catwalk trek to the last remaining flight of stairs, when the dry snap of outdoor gunfire began. How could there be gunfire? How could people have gotten here so fast? How could they tell where the shot had come from, as the suppressor had diffused its origin? Was this a betrayal or some kind of terrible stroke of bad luck? He knew he could mull these issues until capture or death, but got over them in one second. That was the soldier in him: built to confront the wretched here and now.

He and Esteban reached the stairway, two-at-a-timed-it down the steep incline from the catwalk, found themselves behind the chancel, and ran down a side aisle to the west door. They stepped into firefight city. Before them, four of the first-teamers were draped over the two SUVs, all gone to full hammer on the Krinks. The sound of the guns eating ammo came as ripping, as if huge canvas shrouds were being pulled apart by mechanical devices. Around them an ever-growing crescent of squad and sheriff’s cars had arrayed themselves clumsily, and each by this time had its own assortment of sheltering law enforcement, most with pistols, some with automatic weapons. Everybody shooting at everybody, ducking, finding a new spot, shooting some more, twisting back to hasten through a reload. A shooter went down, tried to crawl away, and, halfway through his second extension, bled dry and went still. The others kept the fire up.

It was chaos. Just men with guns shooting at men with guns, trying to maneuver under fire, and, when frustrated, unleashing bullets into the crisp air at vehicles or earth to no tactical advantage. Police flashers exploded, tires went flat, steam burst from engines, lakes of oil oozed like slime across the pavement.

“Back,” yelled Juba, who, absent the abandoned sniper rifle, had no weapon.

He and his companion pulled back, even as someone noted them and sent a burst to gouge a furrow of splintered wood in the west door.

“You go,” yelled the soldier. “I’ll hold them.”

“Jihadi hero,” yelled Juba, kissed him fiercely on the lips.

“Here,” yelled the soldier, handing over the Krinkov.

As he turned back out, he pulled a Beretta and started to fire at oncomers.