Neil simply rattled off instructions. Tac Teams, he said, would arrive shortly, whether Jessica—as he insisted on calling Sam—had alerted them or not. Sooner or later they would aim a satellite at her vehicle's GPS coordinates, just to see what she was up to. The two of them had to get the fuck out of Dodge, as he put it, before Dodge put the fuck into them. Just as men had evolved a preference for young women because of their longer reproductive windows, Tac Teams were attracted to indecisive idiots because of their longer response windows. It took time to isolate, to organize…

Apparently Thomas was being an indecisive idiot.

Dead weight.

'What are you taking?' Neil abruptly asked.

'Ativan,' Thomas said mildly.

His best friend rooted through one of his rucksacks, tossed a beer-tinted pill bottle that bounced against his chest, rolled into his lap.

'A neuroleptic,' Neil explained. 'Experimental. Think of it as Pepto-Bismol for the brain.'

'I-I need…' Thomas said. 'I n-need to clear my head.'

The gun maintained its vigil.

'Exactly. You have to drive to New York and snatch Frankie. You have to bring him back to me ASAP.'

'Tonight?' Thomas asked, almost overcome by a peculiar drowsiness. His limbs had become heavy—drowning-victim heavy.

Critical incident stress. Need to… to…

'Goodbook, listen to me. These people are smart; they figure out things quickly. Right now, their disorientation is our only advantage. But even more, there's Frankie to think about. You know the rule. Neurons that fire together wire together. Even as we speak, Mackenzie's affect feedback implant is wearing deeper and deeper tracks into his brain. It needs to come out now.'

There was Sam, over there, cold and nude and unshivering on the floor. Reflections of walls and furniture gleamed upside-down in her blood. Lives, he thought, were like property lines. And Neil was driving crosscountry. Who could say where he would turn?

'But you're a madman,' Thomas said.

'You know that's not true,' Neil replied with a shrug. 'You only say it because you find sanity unbearable.'

Pull the trigger. Jesus-jesus just pull the MOTHERFUCKING TRIGGER-

His hand lowered the gun.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

August 30th, 11.39 p.m.

There was a roaring, and he opened his eyes to the sterile flare of headlights, an oncoming car swerving, something too profound to he an impact, metal imploding, the car frame snapping, air-hag deploying, sharp things sheering, everything whipping about a deranged axis. A crash louder than sound.

He was wet and motionless. Soaking wet.

Something was wrong with his jaw. It was missing.