“Jesus Christ, what next?” Julie shook her phone, aware that the driver was staring at her in the mirror.

  She had just gotten off the military plane from Dallas, where she’d spent the last week interviewing every agent who had been at the bus station, the entire staff, and half the passengers there. The detention of so many people had caused a political stink, and the mayor of Dallas had phoned the President to complain. In the end, of course, DSSA had gotten its way, but there had been a lot of ill-will generated by the time she was through. People weren’t comfortable letting afflicted, leashed or not, interfere with their civil liberties.

  All pointless. After days of investigation, they were no closer to Teri Darby or Reginald Unglesby than before. Likely the two of them weren’t in the state anymore. And now Julie had to break off her investigation to spend hours tap-dancing in front of Whitchurch and her other superiors at DSSA regional headquarters in Atlanta, trying to convince them not to pull her off the case—or worse.

  I hate this place, she thought. She’d lived in Atlanta before the Event and being here reminded her too much of her former life. The city had recovered more quickly than most places. The economy was thriving and the infrastructure was in good repair. As long as you ignored the deserted sections of the city and the rusted and burned out buildings scattered here and there, you could pretend that nothing had happened.

  For Julie, it was too much like seeing a photo of her old house—knowing she could never go back, that she could never see her husband or her kids again. She got her thoughts under control … she didn’t need anyone at DSSA knowing she could still remember her family.

  She stared at the screen of her satphone. It was still powering up. The age of smartphones had ended with the Event. No one was mass-producing cellular phones or the short-lived lithium batteries that powered them anymore. In any case, the economy couldn’t support the nationwide cell tower networks everyone had taken for granted—especially given the enormous cost of repairing the damage done to the infrastructure during the Event. When people needed to communicate these days they used slower, more reliable technology: ham radio, landlines, or even the US mail. Only the very rich, or those in federal law enforcement or top government positions, had satphones.

  Finally, the screen lit up. Julie had seven missed calls. She listened to one of the messages, cursed, and screamed at the driver. “Turn around! I have to get back to the air base now!”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Yes, ma’am. At the next exit.”

  “Turn around right now, you stupid fucker, or you’ll be sorry.”

  “Ma’am, we can’t turn around in the middle of the ...”

  Julie forced her way into the driver’s mind and compelled him to do as she said. He veered across the median and merged into the other lane of I-75 heading north. Tires screeched and horns blared as cars swerved to miss them.

  The driver screamed in agony as she left his mind.

  “Get me there in five minutes or you’ll be even sorrier than you are now.” He stepped on the gas, and the car swerved back and forth across lanes. Julie dialed Greenly, who was still in Texas.

  “How do you know it’s Teri?” she said.

  “We have her and Unglesby on surveillance cameras in the church. We can’t confirm it, but we believe Ezekiel Daniels was helping them. Only good news is that from the footage we’ve got she’s hurt bad.”

  “Ezekiel Daniels? That’s …” She was about to say “impossible,” but that word wasn’t in her vocabulary since meeting Teri. “Shit. Shit shit shit. I’ll be airborne in half an hour. Be there in two.”

  She cursed, and dialed another number. At that moment, the stressed driver confused the brake pedal and the gas pedal and they slammed into the back of a moving van, which in turn spun into traffic. More than a dozen vehicles were involved within seconds.

  The driver started to get out, but she forced all his memories of the day from his mind, then slammed his head into the side rail of the car, knocking him unconscious and providing him with a head injury that would explain his memory loss. He’d be in trouble for the way he drove today, but it was her own job she was worried about. The last thing she needed was a soldier tattling about abusive afflicted agents in DSSA.

  She got out of the car and looked at the mess the interstate had become. The heel of her shoe chose that moment to break off. She took it off and limped into the median. She dialed the base and called for a Blackhawk just as ambulances and police were arriving.

  “Is everything okay, ma’am?” an EMT said.

  She threw her shoe at him.

  “Do I fucking look okay? Do … I … fucking … look … okay?”

  The EMT dropped to the ground, his mind blasted beyond any hope of recovery. Julie retrieved her shoe and calmed herself.

  She hadn’t meant to do that. She already had enough to answer for.

  No matter, no one would ever figure out what happened to him. They’d probably think he had a stroke. Her people would know though … they’d know she lost her temper, and she did not relish going through their brand of anger management training … again. She fought the urge to kick the man for causing her so much trouble.

  Ten minutes later, the Blackhawk arrived. Stalled motorists stared and pointed as she boarded. So much for low profile.

  She switched to a jet at Dobbins Air Force Base, then flew to Shepard in Texas where she transferred to another helicopter. When she arrived at Bethel, she was wearing a pair of combat boots with her business suit.