She glanced quickly at Kent, who hadn't budged. Then she dropped to a squat and used her free hand to close Galway's eyes. Good and bad were for angels to judge. Here on earth, she could at least give him a little dignity.

"Officer Cruz!" The urgency in Washington's voice yanked her to her feet, let her know something was wrong. At first she assumed Kent was moving, and raised the Glock quickly, eyes staring down the barrel. But the millionaire sat exactly where she'd left, his face white and hands flat. She looked over to Washington.

And saw Billy convulsing in his arms.

Jason took careful steps, weapon up and sweeping. The motion was familiar. How many hundreds of times had he moved this way? How many rooms had he cleared, how many desert streets had he walked point? Though the pistol he'd picked up felt different than his M4 carbine, the principle was the same.

The living room was bright with lamps and catalog furniture. An open arch led to a darker room, and he quickstepped along the wall to stay out of the line of fire. Felt the beat of his heart, the sweat on his sides. The old fear. Back in battle.

He took a breath and then swiveled around the corner. A long table with one tall metal candlestick on it, ornate chairs on both sides, a giant hutch in the near corner. Dining room. Beyond it another door, probably to the kitchen. He tried to remember the size of the house, to place the room in context. He guessed there were maybe five or six more rooms on the ground floor. Best to clear them before tackling the upstairs. He'd be exposed on those steps.

Jason moved forward, pulse throbbing in his forehead. Stretched out a hand for the kitchen door and pushed it slowly, concentrating on the room ahead.

Behind him, the doors of the hutch parted silently, and a dark shape unfolded from it.

Cruz sprinted the few steps to where Washington knelt. The boy seemed to be in an epileptic fit, his hands and legs twitching, head jerking.

"What happened?"

Washington stared up at her, his eyes burning panic. "I don't know. He just… started. Maybe the hit to his head. Do you know what to do?"

She grimaced, then dropped beside the boy. "Here," she said, and held the Glock out.

Washington jerked away as if burned. "No, I-"

"Look, just point it at Kent, and if he moves, pull the trigger."

"You don't understand-"

Billy made a long strangled gasp. His face was beginning to color. "There's no time." She shook the gun at him. "Come on!"

Reluctantly, Washington reached for the weapon. His lips curled like something was rotting in his mouth, but he raised the gun and pointed it in Kent's direction, and that was all she cared about right now.

Her mind scrambled to remember her first-aid classes. What were you supposed to do? First, don't move him unless he was in a dangerous area. The thought would have made her laugh under other circumstances. Focus, dammit. Okay, second, get him off his back. She reached down and put her arms beneath the boy's shoulder, feeling the play of tiny muscles as she rolled him onto his side. It was coming back now. Clear the airway. She had a vision of her instructor telling her never to do it by grabbing for the tongue. Instead, pull the chin out with two fingers behind the corner of the jaw to force the tongue forward. Cruz fumbled to get one hand beneath the boy's head, the other on top.

Billy's choking gasps gave way to a slick, wet wheeze. The flailing of his limbs eased, then quieted. She held his head in place as his breathing calmed. Beside her Washington laughed, and she turned to find him looking at her and Billy, pure joy in his eyes, and she reflected that back at him, feeling a flush of happy relief unlike anything she'd ever known.

Until she heard Adam Kent say, "Washington, I'm going to have to ask you to put down that gun."

He heard the sound before he felt the impact, and it saved his life. Jason threw himself sideways, one arm coming up to shield his face, the other whipping the gun around. The metal candlestick that should have split his head cracked his forearm instead, a sudden nova of pain rocketing up the nerves as his fingers went numb and loose. He saw, rather than felt, the gun fall free, and for a split second it seemed to hang in defiance of gravity, time stopping long enough to allow him to admire the intricate perfection of the world, the faint trace of light silhouetting the barrel, the hatchwork of the grip.

Then Anthony DiRisio jerked the candlestick in a blurring backhanded blow, and this one Jason didn't dodge, the metal catching him in the mouth, gut-sick shiver as it connected with his teeth, white and black stars, and he was falling backwards. His arms tagged the wall, lost purchase, and then his tailbone slammed to the floor, barbed wire and broken glass scraping up the inside of his spine. Everything went wet and zoomy.

"You," Anthony DiRisio said, "are a pain in the ass. But you aren't much of a soldier." Jason had a sense of motion above him, growing closer. Then a weight on his chest. DiRisio was straddling him, knees along his sides. Leaning closer. "Kind of funny," he said, as he lay the candlestick across Jason's throat. "You get to die the same way your brother did." His right shoulder was bloody, the arm flopping, but he pinned that end of the candlestick to the ground with his leg and used his left hand to push down the other side.

The sudden pressure of the metal against his trachea made him gag. Jason gasped for breath, nothing coming, just nothing, like sucking on a cueball. Suns burst behind his eyes, and his hands flopped. He tried to buck, but DiRisio's muscles were iron, and he had leverage. The candlestick ground deeper. The killer rocked forward, his face only inches from Jason's, the individual stubble of five o'clock shadow visible on his cheeks. He smelled sour, coffee and sweat. Jason tried to get his right arm up to push against the metal bar, but it was numb and clumsy from the blow.

I'm sorry, Michael.

Then a thought. Right arm. That meant something. What?

Colors flashed behind his eyes.

Right arm. Right hand.

Darkness flowed in the edges of his vision.

Right hand pocket.

He fumbled his left arm up against DiRisio's hip. There.

Jason yanked the folding knife out of DiRisio's pocket and flicked it open. The man turned, sensing something wrong, the pressure off Jason's throat and a rush of air coming in, but Jason didn't stop, just swung his arm up as fast and hard as he could and buried the blade in the side of the monster's neck.

DiRisio's eyes bulged. He jerked back, his good left hand scrabbling at his neck, his right flopping at his waist. Blood fountained as he fell off Jason's body, crabbed backwards, his legs flying. A choking wheeze became a rattle, and then his hands started to twitch, and he collapsed with the handle protruding from his neck.

Jason pulled himself away, coughing. The pain in his throat was living fire and the air gasoline, each breath making it worse. He leaned against a wall, watching the room spin, waiting for it to slow.

And as it did, he remembered something he'd told Billy earlier. Despite the pain, he found himself smiling. He'd have to tell his nephew he'd been wrong.

Turned out you could kill a nightmare after all.

The gun felt wonderful in Washington's hand, and he hated himself for it. It rewound the clock thirty years, turned him back into an animal, a dog that bit out of fear. A killer listening to the old cold song of twisting metal. And yet, the song sounded so very much like home that when he heard Kent order him to put the gun down, he couldn't tell if he was relieved or angry.

Kent stood beside an open drawer, a snub-nosed revolver pointed at them. The pale face and shaking hands that had lulled Washington to relax, to let down his guard enough to check on the boy, they were gone. In their place was his former unflappable confidence, the slightly cruel sneer. All war is deception.