Welga watched the feeds as they waited for emergency services. Mitchell Smith held his partner’s hand and consoled the tearful children.

“Was it the Machinehood?” asked a wide-eyed preteen.

“We don’t know,” Olafson said.

Yes, we do. Olafson’s look inside had told her he’d received the same message. Somehow the Machinehood knew they were here. She examined Smith’s face. His expression and posture implied the same level of shock as everyone else. He hadn’t expected this, and he hadn’t given her and Olafson away.

“Where’s Jacqueline?” asked another child.

“She arrived yesterday,” Smith explained to Welga and Olafson. He glanced over the crowd of people emerging from nearby homes, then turned back with worry lining his face. “One of my transient teenagers, on her way south to Florida. I don’t see her.”

“I’m going to check for other explosives,” Welga said. She projected so the crowd would hear her. “Everyone stay here! I’ll search for Jacqueline, too. Dr. Smith, if you could highlight her in some recent feeds, that would be helpful.”

Smoke belched from Smith’s house as flames began to lick the upper story. Welga gave the structure a wide margin in case of falling debris. She moved down the right side yard. When had the Machinehood set the explosive charges? While they were talking to Smith—which would imply that they had tracked her and Olafson to the house—or before they arrived? The Machinehood had access to public medical records. What if they came here thinking Smith would hide them because of his connection to Josephine Lee? Or maybe he was a convenient pawn. No one knew what the Machinehood operatives looked like. The one in the refinery could pass for an older adolescent. What if they’d hidden here in plain sight?

Welga sent Olafson another encrypted message: Maybe the Machinehood got here before we did.

He replied: The missing Jacqueline, perhaps? Olafson had followed the same train of thought as her own.

“Por Qué, activate my camo-detector,” Welga subvocalized. “Place marks based on my focal point when I hard-blink.”

Her military tech might be old, but it was better than nothing. Camouflage suits relied on visual perception tricks that a good image-processing WAI could counteract. As Welga’s lenses adjusted, a blur moved in her peripheral vision. She kept her gaze straight. The blur went behind a hedge in the backyard of the adjacent house. Welga turned to face the intact structure, pretending to examine the wall for explosives.

Local law enforcement, including the bomb squad, showed up on her visual overlay, still eight kilometers away. Two exfactors wearing brilliantly colored uniforms popped up, too, only three kilometers from the house. Damn. She didn’t need them interfering, but she couldn’t call them off without giving her intention away to the operative. Three more meters and she’d be in range to fire a tranquilizer at the blur’s last marked location.