Somers glanced at Foley. The redheaded cop shook his head. “Dulac, you’re going to slow him down.”

“Then you come too,” Dulac said. “Hazard would do it for you.”

For a moment, Somers felt a flicker of hope. Then Foley shook his head, his cheeks reddening. “I’ve got kids, John-Henry.”

“I know,” Somers said.

“So does he,” Dulac said. “He’s got a daughter.”

“Gray, let it go.”

“Come on,” Dulac said, staggering and bracing himself. “I can do this. We can do this.”

Somers glanced at the other cops. Nickels looked at the ground. Carlson met his eyes and whispered, “My baby.” Carmichael lasted only a moment before stalking off, her shoulders stiff. Moraes shrugged. Then he stood a little taller and opened his mouth.

Before he could speak, though, Yarmark pushed his way forward. He looked twelve years old, and he had his hands clenched at his sides, but he met Somers’s gaze. “I’ll go.”

Somers counted to ten, waiting, but Moraes didn’t speak.

“Come on,” Somers said.

He went first, lowering himself through the door of the coal chute. Hazard’s lights made it easy to gauge the drop—just three feet—and he let himself fall. Dulac came next, and he staggered when he landed; Somers had to catch him. Yarmark landed lightly.

“I’m gonna puke,” Yarmark whispered. “Oh God, I’m really gonna puke.”

“Then puke,” Somers said quietly. “But keep your head in the game.”

The basement of the Empire Fruit building had a low ceiling; all three men had to stoop. An ancient furnace stood to the right; to the left stood a rusted-out boiler as big as a sedan. Somers clicked on his flashlight, playing it back and forth, and spotted the first tripwire. He pointed to it.

“You two stay behind me,” Somers said. “And step exactly where I step.”

Dulac nodded, but he was clutching Somers’s shoulder, trying to stay upright.

“Gray—”

“I can do this. I need to do this.” He pulled himself upright and released Somers.

Yarmark bent at the knees and puked.

It was perhaps the worst set of reinforcements in history; it was going to have to do.

Somers started forward.

They moved through the basement first, stepping over tripwires, skirting debris—wet newspaper, an overturned filing cabinet, a tree branch that still had leaves on it. Then they came to ancient wooden crates that were stacked close together, forming a maze of narrow passages. Somers almost missed a wire at chest height. He spotted it at the last moment, jerked to a stop, and felt Dulac stumble into him. He stared into the muzzle of a shotgun as he struggled to keep from falling forward. Then Yarmark yanked Dulac backward, and Somers let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.

“Wire,” he whispered,” and he ducked under it and kept going.

Sweat poured down his ribs and his back; he could smell it, a flop sweat of fear and adrenaline. The only sound was their harsh breathing, the scrape of their soles on the cement, and the creaks and protests of the old building. The shadows played tricks. Once, Somers was sure he had seen a man move in the darkness, and he drew the Glock and aimed. But nothing moved again.