It seemed that Claude and friends had managed to fulfill one last order this morning before shutting down the assembly belt. Which meant that Evan had one last head to sever from the hydra of Contrell’s operation to put it down for once and for all.

He had sixteen days until that container ship reached Jacksonville. He would meet the buyer there. But he didn’t plan on leaving Alison Siegler alone until then.

Folding the yellow form in his hand, he headed out, stepping past the trio of gasoline jugs in the hall and through the front door. Jogging up the front walk, he vaulted the security gate.

His boots had just hit the sidewalk when he heard the screech of tires.

Two Ford Transits flew in at him, one from either side, a narrowing V. Familiar gray, no side windows. As Evan reached for his hip holster, their doors rolled open, exposing a row of eyes peering out through balaclava masks. Inside each van a line of shotguns raised in concert, like a gun turret.

Neon orange spots floated within the dark vehicle interiors. The shotgun stocks, color-coded for less-lethal.

Evan had a moment to think, This is gonna hurt, and then the twelve-gauges let fly. The first beanbag round hit him square in the thigh, knocking him into a 180, a volley of follow-ups peppering his right side. A rib cracked. Another flexible baton round skimmed the side of his head, a glancing blow, but given the lead shot packed inside, it was enough. No pain, not yet, just pressure and the promise of swelling.

He spun with the blow, wheeling to round out the 360, somehow managing to draw his Wilson in the process. The black-clad men had already unassed from the vans in shooting-squad formation. These men were expert assaulters, leagues beyond Hector Contrell and his sorry assemblage of freelancers.

An enormous man in the middle held a bizarre gun, its conical barrel flaring to accommodate a balloonlike plug. It looked like a basketball stuck in a snake’s craw.

It discharged with a whoosh. Evan watched it unfurl at him with detached and helpless wonder. Durable nylon mesh, steel clamps weighting the four corners, the whole thing yawning open like the maw of some great beast.

A wildlife-capture net.

It cocooned him, his wrist smashed to his nose, one knee snapped up into his chest, his feet pointed down like an Olympic diver’s. This must have been what the Neanderthals felt like when the lava flow caught up, fossilizing them in all their awkward non-glory.

His gun hand, pinned to his left ear, was as useless as the rest of him.

The pavement smashed his cheek. For a split second, a dot of dancing yellow grabbed his focus—the shipping slip catching a gust of wind, riding an air current into the gutter. The last trace of Alison Siegler, whisked away.