Before the man could open his mouth, Barrett beat him to the punch, speaking in a series of rapid-fire sentences that landed like body blows. “Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of night, but we have an emergency, and I need you and your family to get dressed and leave the neighborhood. There’s been a train derailment on the commercial line out of DC a few miles southwest of here. Unfortunately, the entire train was carrying commercial-grade chemicals, and three cars that fell off the tracks are leaking some kind of toxic substance used in manufacturing. Has a long name I probably couldn’t pronounce even if I had it written in front of me. Because of the winds and the cold front and God knows what else, they’re having a hard time putting out the blaze. And they’re concerned that if the winds are strong enough and shift, it could send a cloud of toxic smoke and fumes your way. We’re setting up a shelter at Falling Rock Elementary School right now, which they’re telling us will be completely safe since it’s four miles to the north. And that’s where we need everyone in this community to go. We’re leading people out in convoys. Once you’re ready, you can hop in your car and line up at the traffic circle. Sir, do you understand everything I’ve told you?” And like an auctioneer who’d just finished a wild minute of bidding, Barrett suddenly stopped talking, allowing the man to process everything he’d just heard.

Brian Thomas—husband to Sherry and father to little Chloe, the girl that had nearly been struck by the fake Amazon driver—was a pilot for United Airlines and flew both domestic and international routes. He was also a former C-130 Hercules pilot in the United States Marine Corps. And while the officer spoke, his brain flipped the switch on the military mindset that was always present, even if idle and running in the back of his brain like a computer subsystem.

“Got it, officer. We’re going now. And thank you,” Brian added, as he closed the door.

As Barrett hustled down the steps, he heard the man yell to his wife, muffled through the front door. “Honey, we need to get the kids and go! There’s been a train accident!”

Less than a minute. One down. Four more to go on my side. Barrett thought that with a little Irish luck, they might clear the entire area within fifteen minutes.

His push-to-talk radio erupted, and he heard the other teams report similar success from the first homes. No one suspects the cops, at least not out here in the suburbs. In the city? Forget it. We would’ve been made within minutes.

He chuckled to himself and moved through the grass toward the next home.

Chapter Seven

Chapter
SEVEN