Stephen crawled forward another yard, toward one of the open doorways.

Panicked, cringey, coated with worms . . .

He fired again and the brown-haired detective ducked back into the room, called something on his radio, but came right back, firing coolly.

Wearing the fireman’s long, black coat—the same as thirty or forty other men and women in front of the safe house—Stephen had blown open the alley door with a cutting charge and run inside, expecting to find the interior a fiery shambles and the Wife and Friend—as well as half the other people inside—blown to pieces or badly wounded. But Lincoln the Worm had fooled him again. He’d figured out that the phone was booby-trapped. The only thing they hadn’t expected was that he’d hit the safe house again; they believed he was going for a transport hit. Still, when he burst inside he was met by the frantic fire from the two marshals. But they’d been stunned by the cutting charge and he’d managed to kill them.

Then the brown-haired detective charged around the corner firing both-handed, skimming two off Stephen’s vest, while Stephen himself danced one round off the detective’s and they fell backward simultaneously. More shooting, more near misses. The cop was almost as good a shot as he was.

A minute at the most. He had no more time than that.

He felt so wormy he wanted to cry . . . He’d thought his plan out as best he could. He couldn’t get any smarter than he’d been and Lincoln the Worm had still out-thought him. Was this him? The balding detective with the two guns?

Another volley from Stephen’s gun. And . . . damn . . . the brown-haired detective dove right into it, kept coming forward. Every other cop in the world would’ve run for cover. But not him. He struggled another two feet forward, then three. Stephen reloaded, fired again, crawling about the same distance toward the door of his target’s room.

You disappear into the ground, boy. You can make yourself invisible, you want to.

I want to, sir. I want to be invisible . . .

Another yard, almost to the doorway.

“This’s Roland Bell again!” the cop shouted into his microphone. “We need backup immediately!”

Bell. Stephen noted the name. So he’s not Lincoln the Worm.

The cop reloaded and continued to fire. A dozen shots, two dozen . . . Stephen could only admire his technique. This Bell would keep track of how many shots he’d fired from each gun and alternate reloading so he was never without a loaded weapon.

The cop parked a slug in the wall an inch from Stephen’s face, and Stephen returned a shot that landed just as close.

Crawling forward another two feet.

Bell glanced up and saw that Stephen had finally made it to the doorway of the darkened bedroom. Their eyes locked and, mock soldier though he was, Stephen Kall had seen enough combat to know that the string of rationality within this cop had snapped and he’d become the most dangerous thing there was—a skillful soldier with no regard for his own safety. Bell rose to his feet and started forward, firing from both guns.