“What the hell, Jon? Are you guys selling those things at Walmart?”

Smith didn’t respond, instead inserting an earpiece that now felt like the technological equivalent of a plastic cup with a string attached.

The man moved through the gloom with complete confidence, using an efficient pattern that would make it impossible for anyone to get by him.

“He knows the layout of the house. Is there any way he could have found out about this room?”

Randi shook her head. “Not unless he notices that the closet and powder room are a little smaller than they were on the architectural drawings. A friend did it for me.”

“He’s headed for the bedroom…Okay, he’s in.”

They watched the man sweep his rifle smoothly around the small space and then turn. His teammates outside would undoubtedly be following his progress with an overhead map application, probably superimposed onto the house’s floor plan.

“He’s coming our way.”

Smith grabbed a silenced pistol from the wall when the man threw the closet door open, but Randi put a hand on his wrist.

“Half-inch steel,” she explained. “Even if he somehow figures out we’re in here, it’ll take a lot more than what he’s carrying to get through.”

The man backed into the center of the room again, standing next to the bed as he reported. A microphone picked up his voice, but Smith had designed the military version of the Merge to pick up very low-level speech and he had to strain to hear.

“The house is clear. Any activity out there?” Pause. “Damn. Well, we know they didn’t leave. Let’s burn it.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Randi said, leaning over to the monitors as the man pulled off a small pack and begin digging through it. “Tina will kill me.”

“Let’s worry about her later,” Smith said. “Can we survive the fire?”

“No way. Basically we’ve got the steel, a little insulation for sound, and some drywall. One outside source for air, but it’s just a normal duct that connects to the roof.”

“Then we’ve got to get out of here. If we move fast, maybe we can take him out and get to the window—”

“Where they’ll be waiting for us with all that supercharged infrared targeting crap you seem to be handing out at parties.”

“You have a better idea?”

She pointed to a small wheel in the ceiling that looked like a submarine hatch mechanism. “That leads to the attic. According to the blueprints, though, the only way in or out is with a ladder on the back deck. There’s a little door about three meters up.”

She stepped up onto a stool that seemed to have been purpose-built and began opening the hatch while Smith selected a Swedish-made submachine gun from the wall. When he turned back to her, the hatch was open and she was pulling herself up into it.