“Gear up,” said Top.

We did.

Top is the oldest active shooter in anyone’s special ops group. He should have retired a long time ago. He is a muscular fifty-something with scars all over his dark brown skin and intelligent eyes filled with equal measures of compassion, intelligence, and tightly controlled anger. If you get between him and something he cares about, you are going to regret that you were the fastest swimming sperm.

He and Bunny went through the motions of selecting weapons and equipment with a familiarity that can only exist because of mutual trust, certain knowledge, and years of experience on the battlefields of this troubled little blue planet. They selected magazines and grenades and other gear, and buddy-checked the Kevlar limb pads and body armor.

Bunny’s stuff was never off the rack. He’s six-and-a-half feet tall and two guys wide. Perfect for the volleyball he once played to Olympic standards, and well-suited to the rigors of combat and hardship. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a goofy smile that went exactly one millimeter deep. Behind the surfer boy look was a good-natured killer. He was truly one of the good guys, but in combat he was something else entirely. His strength was a thing out of legend and he somehow managed to keep his idealism intact despite the things we’d all seen.

I was younger than Top and older than Bunny. A little over six feet, a little over two hundred, a little off the mark when it comes to my psychological profile. My shrink says that I manage my damage in useful ways. Fair enough.

We sat down for the landing but were up again while the bird rolled toward the most distant point in the San Diego airport.

“Looks clear,” said Bunny as he peered out of the window. “Bunch of people over by the terminal, but no one over here.”

“Where’s our ride?” asked Top, looking out of another window. “It’s a little better than five klicks to the hotel. If there’s trouble in town that could be a long walk.”

As if in answer, a big black Nissan Armada came tearing across the tarmac toward us. It was a brute of a civilian SUV, which was fine. We were big guys and we were bringing a lot of toys to this playground. We gathered our equipment bags and deplaned. I ordered the flight crew to refuel as long as it was safe, but otherwise button up and hold tight.

The driver spun into a skidding, shrieking stop that kicked up a cloud of friction smoke. The driver’s door popped open to reveal a woman dressed in the black of a San Diego city police uniform. She was short and solid, with a Mexican face and hair that was falling out of a tight bun.

“Captain Ledger?” she yelled, pitching it almost as a plea.

“I’m Ledger,” I said, walking toward her.

“I’m Torres, SDPD. Get in. Now.”

Top was studying her, but Bunny had a flat hand up to shade his eyes as he stared at the people over by the terminal building. He said, “Oh . . . shit.”