A snickering laugh from the passenger seat.

“It’s your funeral. You see anyone down the road?”

“You mean, like a civilian?”

“No, I mean the abominable snowman. Yes, a civilian. A black woman, about five-six, wearing a skirt.”

“You’re kidding.” A pause. “We didn’t see anyone. It’s dark. I don’t know.”

The sentry climbed down from the running board. “Hang on while I check the back.”

Don’t move, Lacey, the voice said. Don’t move.

The canvas flaps opened, closed, opened again. A beam of light shot into the back of the truck.

Close your eyes, Lacey.

She did. She felt the beam of the flashlight rake her face: once, twice, three times.

You are a shield around me, O Lord—

She heard two hard pounds on the side of the truck, right beside her ear.

“Clear!”

The truck pulled away.

Richards wasn’t one bit happy. The crazy nun—what the blue fuck was she doing here?

He decided not to tell Sykes. Not until he knew more about it. He’d sent six men. Six! Just fucking shoot her! But they’d come back with nothing. He’d sent them back out, around the perimeter. Just find her! Put a bullet in her! Is that so hard?

The business with Wolgast and the girl had gone on too long. And Doyle—why was he still alive? Richards checked his watch: 00:03. He retrieved his weapon from the bottom drawer of his desk and checked the load and tucked it against his spine. He left his office and took the back stairs to Level 1 and exited through the loading dock.

Doyle was stashed over in civilian housing; the room had belonged to one of the dead sweeps. The sentry at the door was dozing in his chair.

“Get up,” Richards said.

The soldier jerked awake. His eyes floated with incomprehension; he didn’t look like he knew where he was. When he saw Richards standing above him, he rose quickly to attention. “Sorry, sir.”

“Open the door.”

The soldier keyed in the code and stepped away.

“You can go,” Richards said.

“Sir?”

“If you’re going to sleep, do it in the barracks.”

A look of relief. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

The soldier jogged down the catwalk, away. Richards pushed the door open. Doyle was sitting on the end of the bed, his hands folded in his lap, looking at the empty square on the wall where the TV had once been. An untouched tray of food rested on the floor, exuding a faint smell of rotting fish. As Doyle lifted his face, a thin smile creased his lips.

“Richards. You fuck.”

“Let’s go.”

Doyle sighed and slapped his knees. “You know, he was right about you. Wolgast, I mean. I was just sitting here thinking, When is my old friend Richards going to pay me a visit?”

“If it was up to me, I would have come sooner.”