“Thursday,” I said, and beckoned him to the crossing point so I could take his case and escort him to the car. I learned that his name was Tim and that he had managed to fit this job in only because there had been a late cancellation.

“All requests are treated equally,” he explained. “No one person is more important than another. What’s the job?”

“See that?” I said, pointing to the sky, where the clouds were swirling in a circular pattern above the city. “There’s going to be a smiting, and a group of sinful men have been gathered in order to attract the pillar of fire away from the town.”

“There must be a lot of them,” he said, being something of an expert. “That’s almost four miles off.”

“Twenty convicts, I believe.”

“Poor things,” he said. “They must be terribly frightened.”

“I don’t think they know anything about it. All we need is to place you near them to shift the smiting back to the city.”

“No problemo,” replied Tim cheerfully. “Goodness! A Sportina. I haven’t ridden in one of these for years.”

I started the engine and took the back road to Wroughton Airfield. The time was 11:42, and the sky darkened as a circular void began to open in the center of the swirling mass. There’d be some hail most likely, then a ripple of thunder.

We sped along the back roads to avoid Wroughton town, and although I was a Day Player and more able to think clearly under stress, I could feel my heart beat faster and an odd sense of nervousness that was positioned not in my stomach but wholly in the mind. I was driving faster than was necessary in the narrow lanes while at the same time keeping a careful lookout for the distinctive glint of a rifle barrel. We were vulnerable in the open countryside, and I’d be a fool to think that the mercenaries were the only people employed to stop me. The righteous man, for his part, just chatted amiably about things in general. If he felt any danger, he didn’t show it.

I looked in the rearview mirror for perhaps the umpteenth time and noted with relief that Phoebe’s red Mini was now behind us at a distance of perhaps two hundred yards. The relief was short-lived, however, as a car pulled out of a side road and blocked her way. I put my foot down, and we picked up more speed, then turned a corner—to be greeted by the sight of two cars parked end to end, blocking the road. Since the smiting was intended to be here, there was an exclusion zone around the airfield. Smite Solutions might not care two hoots about the sinful, but they certainly cared about civilian collateral damage—it would be bad for business.