Swagger stretched, yawned. Another headquarters day: a room decorated with radio shit and maps, with chalkboards all over the place, the radio people being mostly dowdy civilians, because why tie up a trained State cop sitting at a mic? Pictures of the governor, the president, the vice president, and various officials of meaningless rank. Fluorescent light pouring down, turning everything pale ghost gray even if outside it was a sunny midwestern day and prosperity’s engines were turning smoothly, except where they weren’t. Seemed odd to be hunting a shotgun-armed jihadi in Yourtown, U.S.A., and Swagger worried that if Juba saw what was ongoing, he might divert to the nearest mall and start blasting citizens until someone brought him down. He’d go out the obsessed, mercy-free jihadi way. Whatever you could say about these guys, they were hard men, in it to the end, willing to back it up with guts and fast to offer their own lives in the transaction.

Crackly noise.

“Hector, Lima Seven, have a possible Impala, no matching tag, maybe a ’13, tan, but the tan looked ragged to me.”

“Identify location, Seven.”

“Greenville. I’m north on Oakton, he’s south, just past Miller, inside speed limit. I haven’t turned on him.”

“Nearest unit—ah, let’s see—can you get to Oakton and Biddle, park, hide behind your vehicle, get an eyeball on this guy as he passes, but stay low.”

“This is Lima Nine, Hector, wilco that.”

It was silent except for the gravy train of static, amplified so much that it became especially irritating to those who hadn’t made peace with it.

“Go to chopper?” asked Bob.

“Not yet. Maybe it’s a no-go.”

Then, “Hector, Lima Nine, tan Impala just passed, black woman, three kids in backseat.”

“Got it. Good try, Lima Seven. Everybody stand down and—”

“Hector, Hector, Lima Nineteen, now at Walmart Plaza. There he is, parked near the store entrance. Sorry, can’t see if car is occupied, but it’s still dark blue and it’s got the Michael Charlie plates.”

Nick said to the supervisor, “Get your people on the south side, out of sight. Get ’em to assemble—I don’t know—close by, no sirens, no squealing brakes. We’ll take a look-see from up top and issue procedures at that time.”

“Got it.”

Nick turned to Swagger.

“Let’s go,” he said.

•   •   •

From above, the small city of Greenville was mostly elm canopy, pierced here and there by church spires. At the edges, a few industrial tanks stood out like white mushrooms. Nick had instructed the chopper pilot to orbit from a mile out, never coming directly over the Walmart and its wing of the mall. Nick and Bob worked their binoculars carefully.

“Okay, I got it,” Bob said. “Dark blue sedan, south entrance, in the row up from the main entrance on the east side, no action, no motion.”