Alex shrugged. “Who knows? I can never be sure. I just feel a tingle, like a Geiger counter. I know it’s there, somewhere. It’s real evil this time, and I mean hard-core evil. It’s strong, and it’s getting stronger.”

Stiles reached for another cigarette. “You’re not making me feel any better,” he muttered around the butt. “You think it might be the Enemy?”

Alex’s voice changed slightly. “It could be. It’s damn thick this time, almost smothering. Just like that night.” For a moment he seemed lost in thought, in a sudden surge of memory. After a moment he grimaced and shook it off and returned to the present. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Stiles turned to the table where the tools of his trade were laid out and asked himself that same question. Are you ready?

The Heckler & Koch carbine lay stripped and cleaned before him; originally a civilian Model 94 semi-automatic, it had been converted to full auto and an integral suppressor had been installed on the barrel. The laser sighting system had been mounted as well and was fully functional. He put the Mini-Uzi down beside it and checked his second Smith & Wesson 669, this one still nestled in its Cordura shoulder rig. Loaded and ready.

The center of the table was monopolized by ammunition: thousands of rounds of 9mm hollow points he’d loaded on the press over the last several days. There were also packages of factory ammo, all of a certain make. He preferred the Glaser Safety Slug, a particularly destructive round. On impact its copper jacket would simply peel away, allowing the number-12 shot within to expand and chew up the intended target. A Glaser round did maximum damage, and that was just why he used them, though they were too expensive for the wasteful autofire of the SMGs. So he saved them exclusively for his pistols.

He picked up his Alice pack and combat vest from the floor and inspected the pouches and pockets where his munitions were tucked away. In all, there were enough arms and armaments before him now to wage a highly effective one-man war. Which is just what he did for a living. If you could call it that.

Would it be enough? The doubts were always there, like splinters beneath the skin. “Ready as I’ve ever been,” he finally reported. “Where do we fight this time?”

“Not far from here,” Alex told him. “Just east of Bedford. A little town called Isherwood. And this time you’ve got something to go on. The word Danner. Whether that’s a name of a street or a store, I don’t know. Just Danner.” With that the dark figure stood and stretched mechanically. “Will you start soon?”

“First thing in the morning.”