When Wilcox warbled again Handy looked outside quickly. He saw the trooper, only two feet away, turning toward the sound in confusion. Handy reached out the window, grabbed the trooper's helmet, and, jerking hard, lifted him off the ground. The man let go of his machine gun, which dangled from his shoulder by a leather thong, and grasped Handy's wrists, struggling fiercely as the helmet strap choked him. Wilcox leapt to Handy's side and together they muscled the trooper through the window.

As Handy held him in a full nelson Wilcox kicked him in the groin and pulled his machine gun, pistol, and grenades away. He crumpled and fell to the floor.

"You son of a bitch," Handy raged, kicking the man violently. "Lemme look at you!" He ripped off the trooper's helmet, hood, and goggles. He bent his face low. Handy pulled his knife from his pocket and flicked it open, held the blade against the young man's cheek. "Shoot me in the back? That's the kind of balls you have? Come up behind a man like a fucking nigger!"

The trooper struggled. Handy slashed the knife downward, drawing a streak of blood along his jawline. He slammed his fist into the man's face once, then again, a dozen times, stepped away and turned back, kicking him in the belly and groin.

"Hey, Lou, take it -"

"Fuck him! He was going to shoot me in the back! He was going to shoot me in the fucking back! Is that what kind of man you are? That's what you think of honor?"

"Fuck you," the trooper gasped, rolling on the floor, helpless. Handy turned him over, slugged him in the lower back, handcuffed him with the boy's own cuffs.

"Where are the rest of 'em?" Handy poked the knife into the trooper's thigh, a shallow cut. "Tell me!" he raged. He pushed further. The man screamed.

Handy leaned his face close, inches away from the trooper's face.

"Straight to hell, Handy. That's where you can go."

The knife slipped further in. Another scream. Handy reached out and touched a tiny sphere of the tear. It clung to his finger, which he lifted to his tongue. Pushed the knife into the thigh a little bit more. More screaming.

Let's see when this boy breaks.

"Oh, Jesus," the man moaned.

Have to happen sooner or later. Just work our way north with this little bit o' Buck steel and see when he starts squealing. He begun to saw slowly with the blade, working his way toward the trooper's groin.

"I don't know where the rest of 'em are! I'm just fucking reconnaissance."

Handy suddenly got tired of the knife and beat him again with his fist, angrier than ever. "How many? Where're they coming in through?"

The trooper spat on his leg.

And suddenly Handy was back years ago, seeing Rudy sneer at him – well, it was probably a sneer. Seeing him turn away, Handy's two hundred dollars in his brother's wallet – he thought it was there, probably was. Seeing Rudy walk away like Handy was a piece of dried shit. The anger cutting through him like a carbon-steel blade in somebody's hot belly.

"Tell me!" he screamed. His fist rose again and again and smashed into the trooper's face. Finally, he stood back. "Fuck him. Fuck 'em all." Handy ran into the killing room and tipped the pot containing the gasoline over. The room filled with the chill liquid, splashing on the women and girls. Melanie the scared mouse-cunt pulled them into a corner but still they were doused.

Handy held the trooper's submachine gun toward the side door. "Shep, they're gonna come through there fast. As soon as they do I'm going to shoot a couple of 'em in the legs. You pitch that" – nodding at the grenade – "into the room, set off the gas. I want to keep some of them cops alive to tell everybody what happened to those girls. What it looked like when they burnt up."

"Yo, homes. You got it." Wilcox pulled the pin out of the smooth black grenade and, holding the delay handle, stepped into the doorway of the killing room. Handy pulled back the bolt of the H amp;K, aimed it at the door.

"Arthur, we have some movement by the window," Dean Stillwell said over the radio. "The one second to the left from the front door."

Potter acknowledged his transmission and looked out the window with field glasses. His vision of that window was blocked by the school bus and a tree.

"What was it, Dean?"

"One of my men said it looked like somebody going through the window."

"One of the HTs?"

"No, I meant going in the window."

"In? Any confirmation?"

"Yessir, another trooper said she saw it too."

"Well -"

"Oh, Jesus," Tobe whispered. "Arthur, look."

"Who are they?" Angie snapped. "Who the hell are they?"

Potter turned and glanced at the TV monitor she was gazing at. It took a moment to realize he was looking at a newscast – the monitor that had been tuned to the Weather Channel. To his horror he realized he was watching an assault on the slaughterhouse.

"Wait a minute," Budd said. "What's going on?"

"… exclusive footage. It appears that one of the troopers outside the slaughterhouse has just been kidnaped himself."

"Where's the camera?" an astounded LeBow said.

"Can't worry about that now," Potter said. The involuntary thought popped into his mind: Is this Henderson's revenge?

"Tremain," LeBow called out. "It's Tremain."

"Fuck," said good Catholic Tobe. "Those were the scrambled messages we were picking up. He's put an operation together."

"The trap inside! Tremain doesn't know about it."

"Trap?" Derek asked nervously.

Potter looked up, shocked. He understood instantly the depth of the betrayal. Derek Elb had been feeding the Hostage Rescue Unit information about the barricade. Had to be. "What's Tremain's frequency?" he shouted, leaping over the table and grabbing the young trooper by the collar.

Derek was shaking his head.

"Tell him, goddamnit!" Budd shouted.

"I don't have access. It's field-set. There's no way to break in."

"I can crack it," Tobe said.

"No, it's retrosignaling, it'll take you an hour. I'm sorry, I didn't know… I didn't know anything about a trap." Potter recalled that they had been outside when they'd learned about the bomb – at the field hospital.

Budd raged, "He's got a firebomb rigged up in there, Sergeant."

"Oh, God, no," Derek muttered.

Potter grabbed the phone. He dialed. There was no answer. "Come on, Lou. Come on!… Tobe, is SatSurv still on line?"

"Yep." He slammed his finger into a button. A monitor burst to life. It was essentially the same green-and-blue image of the grounds they'd seen before, but now there were ten little red dots clustered on either side of the slaughterhouse.

"They're in those gullies there. Probably going in through the northwest and southeast windows or doors. Give me a high-speed printout."

"You got it. Black-and-white'll be faster."

"Do it!" As the machine buzzed, Potter pressed the phone to his ear, hearing the calm, unanswered ringing on the other end. "Lou, Lou, Lou, come on… Answer!"

He slammed it down. "Henry, what'll they do?"

LeBow leapt up and stared at the printout as it spewed from the machine. "Blow in the door here, on the left. But I don't know what they're doing on the right side. There's no door. You can't use cutting charges to breach a structural wall." He pointed at the mounted diagram of the processing plant. "Look there. That dotted line. That might've been a door at one time. Tremain must have found it. They're going in from both sides."

"Single-file?"

"Two-man entry but tandem, yeah. They'll have to."

"It's -"

The bang was very soft. Suddenly the van went dark. Frances gave a short scream. Only an eerie yellow glow from the thick windows and the twin blue screens of Henry LeBow's computers illuminated the pungent interior.