Grigor sprinted across the living room, grabbed his pack off the floor without skipping a step, then cut right down a short hall. He pushed through the main back door, then the screen door, and was out in the backyard. He turned left toward the stockade fence bordering the dead end, took a running leap, and vaulted over it, his long legs completely clearing the top of the fence.

He landed in a level, weedy space between the fence and the metal rail that extended from the dead end of the road. It was about twenty feet deep. Beyond the rail, the slope was rocky and steep, going down to the street at a forty-five-degree angle. But its base wasn’t more than thirty feet below him. Glancing down, he could see traffic through the brush and stunted trees.

Grigor hurried across the open space in weeds up to his knees. Not slowing down, he shoved his pistol into his waistband, put his carbine into the pack and shouldered its straps. Musil had surprised him by not coming alone. He hadn’t expected that. Or the lunatic on the motorcycle. How had he known exactly where they were inside the bungalow? Grigor had checked to see if Musil was wired up. It couldn’t have been that.

A thought struck him and he glanced skyward, his legs rustling through the weeds. He didn’t see anything up above him. Which didn’t mean there wasn’t anything.

But he couldn’t think about that now. He had carefully planned his escape contingency. Execution was still the critical thing.

He reached the rail and hopped over onto the slope.

“Six—target’s turned left. There’s a fence, you see?”

Carmody rogered Lucas as he burst out the screen door, then removed and tossed his motorcycle helmet. He would lose the drone’s livestream. It would cut him off from Dragonfly. Without it he was on his own. But he would have his peripheral vision. His full range of senses. A fair trade-off.

He ran toward the stockade fence, long strides. Malkira couldn’t have cleared it more than ten seconds ago.

It was about five feet high. Carmody’s left arm was bleeding and numb, so he shoved his gun into his pants, grabbed the top of a board with his right hand, planted a foot on the side of the fence, and hauled his weight up and over.

Malkira had already crossed the weed-grown space between the fence and the rail extending from the dead end. Carmody spotted him scampering downhill on the far side of the barrier, only the back of his head visible over the crest of the slope.