As sirens blared through outdoor speakers, I spotted a fleet of electric golf carts but decided they wouldn’t help. As we ran through the parking lot, I shouted to Maggie: “Help me find Dad’s truck!”

We split up, taking rows and aisles in parallel, and then I heard Maggie shout, “There!”

Sure enough, my dad’s black pickup was parked with all the other cars, as if this were a typical day at some typical workplace.

I cut between a couple of SUVs to reach it and was tackled to the hot asphalt, a burning pain ripping through my head, body, and especially arm. A wild-eyed, ferociously snarling pit bull had a mouthful of me.

The first of Ishango’s fighters had arrived.

CHAPTER 49

Maggie

THE WILD DOG tore into Jordan’s forearm, which he had raised to protect his face and neck. What could I do to stop it? What would Mom do? You can’t pry a dog’s mouth open when it has latched on, and as a veterinarian’s daughter, I have a strong inclination not to harm animals.

But, shit—desperate times, desperate measures, and all that.

I kicked the dog hard, my shoe cratering its ribs, and when it opened its mouth to gasp, I yanked it by its hind legs away from Jordan and drop-kicked it, my foot catching the animal’s tender stomach and sending it three car rows away.

“Nice punt!” Jordan exclaimed as we took the final steps to Jordan’s dad’s truck.

The driver’s door was unlocked, the key under the sun visor as Jordan predicted, and we scrambled in before that dog or any others could attack.

I took the shotgun seat while Jordan sat behind the wheel, but once he saw all the blood pouring out of his right arm, he told me, “You need to drive.”

“Get us out of here now,” I returned, and reached over to put the truck into reverse.

The tires squealed as we lurched backward. There was a thud and a yelp as the truck went over a bump. I shoved the gear into drive, and Jordan floored it.

“I’m glad this isn’t a stick shift,” he said, his voice shaky.

The amount of blood coming out of Jordan’s arm alarmed me. I pulled off my T-shirt, revealing my bra, and wrapped it around the wound.

“I mush’t be dreaming,” he said in his best Sean Connery imitation.

“Shut up,” I said, too fixated on my shirt’s instant red saturation to volley back with the appropriate James Bond–themed quip. “Keep driving.”

I looked back toward the plant’s entrance, where armed soldiers were lined up and facing our way.

With guns raised.

“Duck!” I shouted, and we both pitched forward as a barrage of bullets tore through the windshield. With my head between my knees, I felt the truck hit something—whether a person, animal, or barricade, I had no idea—and keep going.

I sat up again to find Jordan driving with his left hand, his right arm hanging beside him wrapped in my drenched T-shirt.