Terrence's hands holding the nightvision spyglass trembled with each shiver. The temperature hovered around freezing, the sky cloudless and full of stars. From his vantage point, Terrence couldn't see the scavengers through the broken out windows, only the long shadows they cast on the wall. He stroked his arms for warmth and thought about Alcy. Her father forbade him from telling the nature of his operations: where he was going, what he was doing, and why. All she knew was that he wasn't with her. She would wake in the morning to find him asleep on the couch, usually an empty bottle in his lap. They fought about that and everything else. He told her to be patient, that once they put a lid on this latest crisis that he'd ask Barrett for time away. Maybe then they could take that Caribbean vacation they'd been planning for so long. She didn't even crack a smile as she shut the bedroom door.

If she only knew how much he hated being here, freezing, waiting to witness something awful. Barrett had gotten word that a group of scavengers would be gathering for something they called a swap, where they traded food and weapons for drugs. Barrett got word that Ellen Johnson, primed for retribution, would be crashing the party with two squads of special ops in order to capture and interrogate the prisoners.

"She thinks a city-wide revolt in the works, spearheaded by Concord," Barrett had said, stubbing out his cigar. "We know that's a false lead now, but somebody's been a step ahead of us all along. We need to get back in front. Go stake out this swap. Hang in the shadows. When the bust happens don't get involved. Just wait and see what comes next." And those were his orders.

Terrence shifted uncomfortably trying to stay silent. He wasn't used to carrying so many weapons—two pistols, his knife, a baton, and a short-barreled shotgun—but he wanted to be prepared if things went rotten in a hurry. The cold made everything worse. He hated the waiting, especially with the knowledge that he was going to see people get hurt, maybe killed. He had counted at least a half-dozen children enter the building. They knew this wasn't a scavenger uprising, but why not tell Johnson that? And there was nothing for Terrence to do now. He couldn't go down and politely explain that the women and children had best leave. So he did what he did best—he waited.

Well after dark, he finally saw through the spyglass a series of shadows spreading along the outer wall of the building, flanking the two entrances. The scavengers inside went about their business, oblivious to the threat. Then, without warning, a scavenger stepped from the ruined building and shadow attacked, catching the man squarely in the jaw with his rifle butt. He dropped like a sack of sand, but the guard caught and wheeled him away from the entrance in one fluid motion. Seconds later the guards were inside. The silhouettes on the wall raised their hands high. Shouts carried on the cold night air but he couldn't make out what was being said.

Then he heard a deafening bang and a flash of white light that stung his eyes. He squinted away tears, forcing himself back to the glass as the scene burst into confused screams. The night erupted into gunfire. Guards darted outside and took cover behind the walls as more stun grenades detonated. Terrence was breathing hard and fast, the sweat chilled on his skin. Barrett knew this was coming, he thought as he watched. The air was punctuated by shouts, screams, and cries--but only muffled rifle fire.

"They're breaking containment," a voice said from only a few yards to his right. Terrence toppled over in surprise.

"Idiots, can't do nothign right," a second voice answered ahead of him and to the left. Terrence gripped his shotgun.

Another peal of automatic gunfire from his right. "Stay put and take out anyone coming out that doorway," the first voice said. The shadowy form trotted forward shouting, "Move! Move! Pin them inside!"

Return fire from the building sprayed the hillside and Terrence ducked. The attackers pressed their initiative and converged along the building walls, moving in a column. Terrence recognized it immediately; it was a basic move taught in training at the Rock.

Fifteen yards ahead Terrence saw muzzle flashes and the shush of a silenced rifle. The man left to cover the doorway. Terrence slung the shotgun across his back and drew his baton, creeping quietly. The man wore a riot helmet pushed back on his head, his attention fixed on his aim. Terrence measured the swing, brandished the club, and brought the club across the man's cheek with a dry crack.

"Scream and you're dead," Terrence growled in his ear. He dragged the senseless man backwards through the grass away from the fray, the blade of his knife pressed against his throat. "What are you doing here? Who sent you?"

The man reached for his arm but Terrence pressed the knife harder, praying the man wouldn't do anything stupid. He made a strangling sound and his hands relaxed. Terrence loosened his grip.

"The MPD. We were sent to attack the MPD."

"How'd you know they were coming? Who told you?"

The man struggled and Terrence pressed the knife hard enough to break the skin. The man froze. "Reyes," he said, his voice trembling. "We're paid by Carlo Reyes."

The puzzle pieces tumbled in Terrence's mind. Reyes? The man flailed again. Terrence rammed the knife butt down between the man's eyes, knocking him out cold. He let the body slide limply to the ground, collected his dropped rifle, and melted into the night.