A talking head popped up on the screen; his complete lack of knowledge of the event didn’t stop him from drawing the conclusion that this was the job of fundamentalist Islamic terrorists.

They’d soon know differently.

“Look, honey, we did it!” Charlotte called to her daughter, who had remained in the bedroom, lost in a book. (That satanic Harry Potter. Charlotte had thrown out two of them. Where on earth had the girl gotten another copy?)

The girl gave an exasperated sigh and returned to the book.

Charlotte was momentarily furious. She wanted to storm into the bedroom and slap the girl’s face as hard as she could. They’d just won a spectacular victory and the girl was showing nothing but disrespect. Bud had asked several times if he could take a hickory stick to the girl’s bare butt. Charlotte had demurred but she was now wondering if maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.

Still, her anger faded when she thought of their victory today. She stood up. “We better leave.” She shut the TV off and continued packing a suitcase. Bud walked into the bedroom to do the same. They were going to drive to Philadelphia, where they’d get a plane back to St. Louis—Duncan had told them to avoid the New York airports afterward. They’d then return to the backwoods of Missouri and go underground again—waiting for the next opportunity to further their cause.

Gerald Duncan would be here soon. He’d collect the rest of his money and leave town too. She wondered if she could convert him to their cause. She’d spoken to him about the idea but he wasn’t interested, though he said he’d be more than happy to help them out again if they had any particularly difficult targets and if the money was right.

A knock on the door.

Duncan was right on time.

Laughing, Charlotte strode to the door and flung it open. “You did it! I—”

But her words stopped short, the smile vanished. The policeman, in black helmet and combat outfit, pushed inside. With him was Amelia Sachs, a large black pistol in her hand, her face furious, eyes squinting as she scanned the room.

A half dozen other cops streamed in behind them. “Police! Freeze, freeze!”

“No!” Charlotte wailed. She twisted away but got only one step before they tackled her hard.

In the bedroom, Bud Allerton gasped in shock as he heard his wife scream, the harsh voices and the stomping of feet. He slammed the door shut and pulled an automatic pistol from his suitcase, worked the slide to put a round in the chamber.

“No!” his stepdaughter cried, dropping her book and scrabbling for the door.

“Quiet,” he whispered viciously. He grabbed her by the arm. She screamed as he flung her onto the bed. Her head hit the wall and she lay stunned. Bud had never liked the girl, didn’t like her attitude, didn’t like her sarcasm and her rebelliousness. Children were put on earth to obey—girls especially—or suffer the consequences if they didn’t.