“On it,” Boxers said, and he headed out the door to get things moving.

The barn in general smelled of mud and old gasoline, and light leaking through spaces in the walls cut pinstripes through the dust that stirred as they entered. Stephenson explained, “It’s a place to store stuff we never use. As a kid, it was my retreat. My fort. I used to hide out in the loft.”

Next to the tractor sat a relatively new three-quarter-ton truck. “Is that the vehicle you helped yourself to?” Jonathan asked, pointing.

“That’s the one.”

“And how much germ juice is in there?” Jonathan slipped a mini-Maglite out of a loop on his belt and twisted it on, launching a piercing white beam across the floor. “Show me,” he said.

Stephenson hobbled to the back of the truck and pulled open the back door. All they could see were five wooden crates, each of them three feet square. The one closest to the rear of the vehicle had clearly been opened, and its lid hastily replaced. “That’s the one I took the cylinders out of on the night we were trying to free Thomas,” he explained, pointing.

Jonathan hoisted himself into the truck for a closer look.

Stephenson continued, “Tibor met me at a truck stop outside of Shepherdstown that night. I left the truck there and took the three canisters that Conger wanted and we went the rest of the way by car.”

The canisters themselves were about the size and shape of a salami, and constructed of what appeared to be stainless steel. Jonathan hefted one and guessed the weight to be maybe six pounds.

“Not much to them, is there?’ Stephenson said.

“A couple of pounds is a lot of germs. Why do you think Tibor Rothman agreed to come along with you?”

Stephenson pursed his lips and shrugged. “I really don’t know. My begging helped, I think.” He meant it as a joke, but it fell flat. “I talked myself into believing that the only way to have a chance long-term, if everything went right, was to have an eyewitness from the press to report what had happened.”

Jonathan put the canister back in the crate and closed the top. “That wouldn’t make them all the more anxious to kill you?”

“Maybe, but for a different reason. In that case, they’d be killing me because they were pissed. Everybody would know who did it, and for what reason, and because of that, I figured they’d be less inclined to go to the trouble.”

Jonathan smiled. “Good old-fashioned reverse logic. Why did you and Tibor split up after you bolted from the drop-off site?”

“Harder to catch two moving targets than one. I ended up taking a bus back to the truck stop where I left this beast.” He patted the side of the truck. “By the time I got back to it, I figured the story would have broken and it would have been over. But the story never broke. I guessed that meant Tibor was missing and I decided to go into hiding.”

“Let me get down outta this,” Jonathan said. “Shit gives braced himself, his left leg ahead of his right. He settled himself with a deep breath and tightened his whole hand around the pistol-grip stock as he tucked his shoulder in. When the weapon barked, the kid seemed ready for it. Even without binoculars, Jonathan could see the white gouge that the bullet carved into the bark of the tree.

“Very nice,” he said, meaning it. “Give me another.”

Thomas set himself and fired again. More wood flew.

Jonathan grinned. “Excellent. Where’d you learn to shoot?”

“A buddy of mine at school has a farm. I’ve killed hundreds of bottles in the last four years.”

“Bottles don’t shoot back at you,” Boxers growled. “Ever shot anything that was alive?”

Thomas had had it with Boxers’ grousing. “What the hell is your problem with me? I’m on your side.”

“I don’t need you on my side,” Boxers said.

“But he’s here, isn’t he?” Jonathan said. “He’s volunteered to put himself in harm’s way, and we’re going to need the extra manpower.”

“Against these yahoos that are on their way? Bullshit.”

“That’s enough!” Jonathan snapped.

“It’s crazy!” the big man snapped back. “Can we talk privately?”

“We don’t have time,” Jonathan said. What was the point? He knew where the conversation was going to go. “Just say what’s on your mind.”

Boxers shook his head. “Not in front of the kid.”

“Hey!” Thomas barked. “What is with-”

“You don’t know shit, kid. You don’t even know what you’re getting into.”

“I know enough,” Thomas said.

“No you don’t! And the fact that you think you do is even scarier.” He turned to Jonathan. “You don’t have the right to expose them like this. It’s wrong, and you know it.”

Jonathan stared, stunned.

“I’m good for this, Scorpion,” Thomas said.

Piss and vinegar, Jonathan thought.

“What are you gonna do, Scorpion?” Boxers pressed. “You want me to speak freely, I’ll speak freely. You got the only two people who actually know how to shoot tied up on the porch, you got one who’s ready to surrender to anybody who’ll listen, you got an old guy with a bad leg, and a kid who thinks we’re gonna be attacked by bottles. What in that picture looks anything but crazy to you? If these Brigade yahoos are good enough to make us need what we’ve got, then we’re completely screwed. You’re gonna get them killed.”

Jonathan didn’t know what to say. Andrew Hawkins’s description of Ivan Patrick’s demagoguery echoed in his head. If Boxers was right-if he was asking too much from people who had no chance to deliver-then Jonathan and Ivan had something terrible in common. He said nothing as he turned and started walking toward the tree line.

“Where you goin’?” Boxers wanted to know.

Jonathan kept walking. He needed to think. A knot had formed in his stomach. Say what you like, package it as you wish, this was a revenge mission-a murder mission-and he realized now that it was a poisonous one. Dom and Ven were both right. Boxers had even seen it, for God’s sake enough for me. Now let’s get ready to kill some bad guys.”

This time as Boxers led, Jonathan followed. As he walked, he thought about Boxers’ question. The coming fight would go as it would go. Far more difficult was the next step. Irene Rivers could not have been more direct in her warning: the weapons they had in their possession were a Homeland Security issue now, meaning presumption of guilt and suspension of all civil rights. It meant disappearing. Poof. It meant never having existed at all.

Jonathan had learned years ago that it was a mistake to second-guess the past, but under the circumstances of the last week, he found it impossible not to. The ripple effect of Thomas’s rescue was staggering in its scope, the number of ruined lives and people killed-with more to come tonight.

All because of…what? Greed, he supposed. That was the common denominator. The Patrones and Carlyle Industries had been greedy for money, Fabian Conger had been greedy for attention, and the agencies that had funded the project in the first place were greedy for power. All the rest were soldiers, pawns, or merely collateral damage.

There had to be a way to stop the juggernaut of destruction. There had to be an exit strategy that would allow them to win this for real. All Jonathan had to do was find the right handle to pull.

Good old-fashioned reverse logic.

A fully formed plan came to him just like that, out of nowhere. He jerked to a stop and Boxers turned.

“What’s wrong now?” Big Guy asked.

“Not a thing,” Jonathan said with a grin. “I’ve got the answer.”