Paulson killed the engine and climbed from the van. There was a keypad on the van’s sliding door; he punched in the numbers and Richards watched it draw slowly open.

Carter was sitting on the front bench. His head was tipped forward, but Richards could see that his eyes were open. His hands, shackled, lay folded in his lap. Richards saw a crumpled McDonald’s bag on the floor at his feet. At least they’d fed him. The window between the compartments was closed.

“Anthony Carter?”

No response. Richards called his name again. Nothing, not a twitch. Carter seemed completely catatonic.

Richards stepped back from the door and pulled Paulson aside. “Okay, you tell me,” he said. “What’s the story?”

Paulson gave a stagy, “who me?” shrug. “Beats me. Dude’s just fucked up or something.”

“Don’t bullshit me, son.” Richards turned his attention to the other one, with the red hair: Davis. He was holding a sheaf of comic books in his hand. Comic books, for the love of God. For the thousandth time, Richards thought it: these were kids.

“What about you, soldier?” he asked Davis.

“Sir?”

“Don’t play stupid. You got anything to say for yourself?”

Davis’s eyes darted toward Paulson, then back to Richards. “No, sir.”

He’d deal with these two later. Richards stepped back toward the van. Carter hadn’t moved a muscle. Richards could see that his nose was running; his cheeks were streaked with tears.

“Anthony, my name is Richards. I’m the head of security at this facility. These two boys aren’t going to bother you anymore, you hear me?”

“We didn’t do anything,” Paulson pleaded. “It was just a joke. Hey, Anthony, can’t you take a joke?”

Richards turned sharply to face them again. “That little voice in your head, telling you to shut the fuck up? That’s the voice you should be listening to right about now.”

“Aw, come on,” Paulson whined. “The dude’s mental or something. Anyone can see that.”

Richards felt the last of his patience run out of him like the last drops of water from a leaky bucket. The hell with it. Without speaking he withdrew his weapon from its spot at the base of his spine. A long-slide Springfield .45 that he used mostly for show: a huge gun, a hilarious gun. But despite its bulk, it rode comfortably, and in the predawn light of the loading area, its titanium casing radiated with the menace of its perfect mechanical efficiency. In a single motion Richards popped the safety with his thumb and chambered a round, grasping Paulson by the belt buckle to pull him close, then shoved the muzzle into the soft V of flesh below his chin.

“Don’t you understand,” Richards said quietly, “that I’d shoot you right here just to put a smile on this man’s face?”