At first Clay had concentrated on hotheads. But Leah’s assailant had obviously tracked her routines, lain in wait, and lured her by turning on the light in the storage room. That spoke of a cold and calculating man.

If the Florida murderer was a Ranger, he must have sneaked out at night and rowed into town, since they’d never had leave before the girl’s disappearance.

“Paxton, you’re up.” Lombardi held out the rope.

“Yes, Sergeant.” He made sure his bayonet was loose in its scabbard in case he needed it, then grabbed the rope.

Up he went, hand over callused hand. In gym he’d always been good at rope-climbing, but he’d always feared falling and breaking his neck.

Not now, and he grinned. He wouldn’t die in a fall. Even if he fell, he wouldn’t be injured badly enough to keep him out of the invasion. His dream freed him to climb just as it had freed him to marry Leah.

Chalk and sandstone scraped his hands and fell away from beneath his feet. His breath was hard but steady, and his muscles announced their presence without pain.

To either side, Rangers in fatigues ascended, calm and steady. They knew they were strong, they knew they were good, and they knew this was for a purpose.

About ten feet to the top, and Clay savored the cool air and the sounds of surf, seagulls, and soldiers.

The rope went slack.

Clay cried out and grabbed at the cliff with hands and feet, scrabbling for a grip.

Chalk gave way under his fingers, and he slid, the slight outward slope slowing his fall. “Help me, Lord!”

The bayonet! Clay whipped it from the scabbard and stabbed it into the cliff.

It held.

“Thank you.” He groped around with his feet and his free hand until he had a solid hold.

“Paxton!” Lombardi yelled up to him. “You all right?”

“Could use a rope, y’all.” He pressed his whole body to the cliff, and his breath brought up puffs of white dust.

His heart pounded like crazy. That had been close. Thank goodness he’d been the last man to climb so no one else had been endangered.

He peered down the slope. The rope lay in a tangled coil on the pebbles. That could have been him, dream or no dream.

“Pax!” Gene’s voice came from above, almost frantic. “Grab hold.”

Something whapped the back of his steel helmet.

A rope, and Clay took it. He wiggled his bayonet free, clenched it between his teeth, and climbed to the top.

Holman and McKillop yanked on the rope. Gene and Ruby grabbed Clay’s arms and hoisted him up onto horizontal ground.

Clay dropped the bayonet and lay flat, his fingers working into cool blessed grass. “What happened?”

“Lyons tripped over the line.” Contempt warped Sid Rubenstein’s voice.