All Rhyme could think to do was tell Central that any assaults or break-ins in or near a building having roofing work done should be patched through to them immediately.

The dispatcher hesitated and said she’d put the notice on the main computer.

The tone of her voice suggested that he was grasping at straws.

What could he say? She was right.

Lucy Richter closed the door to her co-op and flipped the locks.

She hung up her coat and hooded sweatshirt, printed on the front with 4th Infantry Division, Fort Hood, and on the back the division’s slogan: Steadfast and loyal.

Her muscles ached. At the gym, she’d done five miles, at a good pace and 9-percent incline, on the treadmill, then a half hour of push-ups and crunches. That was something else military service had done: taught her to appreciate muscle. You can put down physical fitness if you want, make fun of it as vanity and a waste of time but, fact is, it’s empowering.

She filled the kettle for tea and pulled a sugared doughnut out of the fridge, thinking about today. There were plenty of things that needed to be done: phone calls to return, emails, baking cookies and making her signature cheesecake for the reception on Thursday. Or maybe she’d just go shopping with friends and buy dessert at a bakery. Or have lunch with her mother.

Or lie in bed and watch the soaps. Pamper herself.

It was the start of heaven—her two weeks away from the land of the bitter fog—and she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

Bitter fog . . .

This was an expression she’d heard from a local policeman outside Baghdad, referring to fumes and smoke following the detonation of an IED—improvised explosive device.

Explosions in movies were just big flares of flaming gasoline. And then were gone, nothing left, except the reaction shot on the characters’ faces. In reality what remained after an IED was a thick bluish haze that stank and stung your eyes and burned your lungs. Part dust, part chemical smoke, part vaporized hair and skin, it remained at the scene for hours.

The bitter fog was a symbol of the horror of this new type of war. There were no trusted allies except your fellow soldiers. There were no battle lines. There were no fronts. And you had no clue who the enemy was. It might be your interpreter, a cook, a passerby, a local businessman, a teenager, an old man. Or somebody five klicks away. And the weapons? Not howitzers and tanks but the tiny parcels that produced the bitter fog, the packet of TNT or C4 or C3 or the shaped charge stolen from your own armory, hidden so inconspicuously that you never saw it until . . . well, the fact was you never saw it.

Lucy now rummaged in a cabinet for the tea.

Bitter fog . . .