Something white ahead. The rock club’s bass boomed like a giant heart.

“We’re going to—”

They slammed head on into the truck.

Cold. Martin tried to sit up, but his head screamed in protest. He felt for it with numbed hands and yelped when his fingers brushed his nose—broken. Bright red blood on the dashboard in front of him, dripping on the steering wheel. It was all over his hands.

Head wound. He had a head wound. They always bled a lot. His arms were okay, his legs hurt like hell, but he could move them. The car was mashed to hell.

There was a limp white balloon hanging from the steering wheel. Air bag.

He turned his head to tell Agent Jennings about the air bag, but Jennings was gone. His door was open, creaking in the wind, and there was blood on the passenger seat.

“Jennings?” he croaked. “Hey, are you okay? Hey?”

He could see through the windshield now, mostly because the windshield was gone. Jagged squares of safety glass hung like fringe here and there; he had a good view of the white truck. It lay on its side like a dying elephant, grille mashed in. One tire was still spinning unevenly. The wind smelled like gas and hot metal.

Somebody opened the driver’s-side door. Martin tried to turn his head, but it wouldn’t cooperate. He turned it with both hands and blinked.

“Jennings?” No, the face wasn’t Jennings. It was a big guy with a blank steroid look. In spite of the cold, he was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt. His arms looked like the Jaws of Life.

“You okay, man?” the Hulk asked. “We called 911. Shit, there’s some old lady shot over there. You do that?”

Martin tried to shake his head.

“I seen you crash. Man. Boom! Lucky you ain’t dead, man. You been drinking or what? Hey, if you been drinking, better have one of these.” He held up a tin full of what looked like mints. “Altoids. Cops won’t smell it on your breath.”

“Where’s Jennings?”

“Who? The old lady? She’s over there. Guy from the club, he used to be an EMT, he’s over there with her. Don’t worry, he ain’t been drinking much.”

“What about the truck? Anybody in there?”

The Hulk looked almost cheerful.

“Couple of dead guys, that’s all. One of ’em has no face, Randy said. He was pukin’ on the sidewalk, so I know he wasn’t shitting me.”

Over the Hulk’s huge shoulder, Martin caught sight of a woman wearing a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, brand new. It still had creases. She smoothed it proudly over her hips and modeled it for a weaving leering boyfriend.

Martin held his head together with both hands and peered out at the street.