On they went, scrambling, one eye on the cluster of headlights. The scout car had pulled up behind the black panel truck to box it in—blocking its escape with a roadblock. The truck slowed, stopped in the road. Men jumped out of the scout car and from the jeep. From the headlights, Lett could make out their utility uniforms with USMC markings.

“Go, Marines, go,” Lett blurted, and Kanani squeezed him as they hurried along.

The Marines surrounded the panel truck, creeping toward it, crouching. Men exited the truck’s rear, their arms up high. They wore dark gear. Then the sideways jeep’s lights illuminated the land where, Lett could see it now, other Marines were marching back other men in black, their arms up.

Another mound of rock, then the road. They hurried on and huddled at the mound, catching their breath, peering out. “Jock there?” Kanani gasped.

“Don’t know. Can’t tell.”

“Lansdale?”

“Nope. Don’t see him.”

The Marines lined up their prisoners along the side of the road. Flashlights illuminated their faces white and Lett recognized some from the lava tube, from what they did to the commando. From his cell. Gear was at their feet, goggles and small packs, and grease guns and pistols. The Marines had their weapons aimed. Thompson guns.

“Saw some of them at Frankie’s,” Kanani said, squeezing Lett’s hand, their hot sweat flowing as if from one.

“Go.”

Out over the road they rushed, as low as they could, their thighs pumping. A narrow stretch of the lava field lined the other side—the smooth, ropy pahoehoe, so flat it shined in the moonlight. They crossed it and their feet hit the grass and it was like carpet. Sprinting now. They were heading toward a dark line, what had to be a gully. Kanani was leading.

Lett had to look, one more time. “Wait . . .”

He pulled at her, and they turned and crouched.

At the rear end of the jeep nearest them stood a silhouette, glowing red from the taillights. Only ten, fifteen yards away. The silhouette wore no USMC gear except for a bucket hat.

It was Jock. Jock was watching the Marines frisking the pursuers in the road. And he was watching for Lett and Kanani, making sure their route was secure.

For a moment, Jock turned to them. Their eyes met, locked. He waved them on, pointing, directing them onward. Go, go, he was saying. All clear. Now or never.

Lett nodded. Jock nodded.

Off they ran. Kanani pulled at Lett’s loose coveralls and they made it to the gully where they dropped and turned to the road, lying with arms and legs intertwined, panting and wheezing, sweat splashing on their hands.

Lett drew the binoculars. Down at the roadblock, their pursuers were squatting in a circle out on the gravel, the other Marines guarding them. But Jock? He was nowhere to be seen.