I don't like gravel, or sand—any fine ground cover that's going to hitch a ride home in my shoes.

Have you ever tossed stuff in a canvas bag on your way out the door, then discovered later that your fleece or bare apple is now coated with grit from your two-weeks-ago beach trip?

It was a two-mile hike from the quarry parking lot to the rendezvous point, and seemed longer over the dusty, yielding terrain. I walked beside Piper over the undulating dunes, one gray rise after another.

I had dressed even younger than my usual Mice attire, going for a wide contrast with the CIO persona I'd used at Roche Rivard. Under these paper-thin sleeves, I felt my arms goose-pimpling.

Finally we reached the spot, designated by a fifteen-foot pike sticking out of the rocks.

Josiah leaned his rawboned arm against the pike. "We early?"

Piper checked her phone. "Not by much."

We swiveled around to scan the barren horizon. Hatch winced at the effort, his wrist splinted and ribs heavily taped. I noted the gentle slope to the north, which contained a tiny dugout for Durwood's microcamera.

The mood was dour, whether because of the walk or circumstances or the day's grayness—which matched the rocks underfoot. Piper kicked at one. Garrison skulked about with awful posture, though possibly his doldrums had to do with the time I'd been spending with Quaid lately.

We waited.

The prearranged time came and went.

After ten minutes, I heard a crackle in my ear. Then Durwood's voice.

"How they holding up?"

I checked. Josiah was performing tai-chi in the pike's direction, pushing and chopping at it.

"Eh, I've seen them better," I said in the direction of my hood's drawstring. "Do you have Rivard on radar?"

"Not yet."

I twisted toward the parking lot, which was one of several and not the closest—chosen to be inconspicuous. "You're sure they can't see the Vanagon?"

"I'm confident."

"Confident?"

"We're tucked in under this shed," Durwood said. "Their birds can't see."

We weren't supposed to linger on this frequency, so I gulped back my anxieties and signed off.

Garrison had seen me talking into my jacket. "What's up? They want us to do anything?"

I shook my head. "I think we just sit tight and wait."

He shifted weight between feet, digging in his pockets, studying the rocks below.

I asked, "Did you have something you wanted to say?"

He brushed his hair aside, sharply. "Your friends, honestly? Are kinda scary. What Durwood did to Hatch? And Quaid—was he really governor of Massachusetts?"

I nodded.

"Now he's like a freelance...operative dude?"

I was pretty sure we'd covered this ground; Shop-All had been weeks ago. "At times, I barely believe they're real myself."

As our wait stretched on, the other Mice looked to me for direction. Josiah slung rocks into the distance with an eye on me. Hatch's bandages felt like an indictment, as though I were guilty by association of beating him. Although I didn't miss the stress of being an impostor, I felt a little wistful for their lost exuberance. They had believed it was them against the world order—against millennia of societal convention. Now they were acting like high schoolers chafing under a strict sub.

Josiah in particular seemed diminished. Nobody startled when he entered a conversation circle. When he whipped out his cellphone, people weren't on pins and needles for some tweet.

Piper kept holding her laptop at different orientations.

I asked if she was getting a signal.

"In and out," she said. "I wanna back-up as soon as we have our hands on it."

"Good idea," I said. "Hey, thanks for watching the kids last night. You're a lifesaver."

She closed her clamshell case halfway, not answering.

I asked, "What're you going to do when it's over? The Anarchy? Have you thought about it?"

Piper grimaced at her screen.

I said, "Zach didn't say he missed dessert, did he? He tries that sometimes."

Piper said he hadn't.

"He told our last sitter the candy wrappers were from the night before, which—"

"Let's not." She broke off troubleshooting her signal. "Cool?"

What had I said? Frustration was all but blasting from her ears. Had I annoyed her? Last night, Piper had seemed on board with the guys, with the plan...what had changed?

My thoughts must've shown though because Piper said, "This sucks, is all."

She closed her laptop and twirled it, like a gunslinger or quarterback with a football. Then she nodded ahead—the direction they expected Rivard to come from.

"I'm not loving this."

I cleared my throat but couldn't get rid of the quarry's dense, chalky air. "Neither am I."

Deciding there was no point worrying, I willed myself to a better mindset. I thought about that question I'd asked Piper—what next? The Mice job had improved my finances (assuming bank balances got restored at some point), and without question I had grown professionally. After all, I had attended the World Economic Forum in Davos. I'd gone undercover in Roche Rivard.

These weren't textbook bullet points on a resume, fine, but they positioned me for success. I was never going to wither before another over-demanding office manager—that was for sure.

Would the guys ask me to join Third Chance Enterprises permanently? I felt like it was possible. I wasn't sure I would accept, though. Reviving McGill Investigators might be better—better for my family, better for my personal safety. If our role in foiling Rivard got reported around in the press—if my role did—it could be a publicity boon.

I looked beyond the pike to the sun, low in the sky, haze-orange through the sulfur pollution.

I imagined peace. Not riding my brakes through every stoplight. Smiling at strangers on the sidewalk again—rather than fixing my gaze straight down. Would people treat each other more kindly once order was restored? Would they appreciate the blessing of peace? Would they cherish it?

A rumble began, a dissonant groaning through the quarry. For an instant I thought it was Him answering my thoughts in the affirmative...then black shapes rose from the horizon.

The shapes grew in size, giant steel-winged locusts screeching toward us.

As the lead helicopter neared, dark face-shields became visible through the cockpit glass. Landing skids resolved below the locusts' bellies. As they began their descent, kicking up mad swirls of rock and dust, the noise blotted out all thought in Molly's head.

It sounded like air being ripped, one strip at a time, from a reluctant sky.

My hair frizzed five inches on all sides. Particles pelted my eyes. My knees felt rubber—I thought the wind would topple me.

The lead helicopter set down, and Blake Leathersby dismounted. The English mercenary—now Rivard vice president—swung jauntily down one skid, his buzzcut stationary in the rudder wash.

In my ear: "Who came? Leathersby?"

I nodded in the blaring noise and wind—then remembered Durwood couldn't see me.

"Yes," I said. "It's Leathersby."

A half-dozen commandos emerged next.

Durwood said, "He have a package?"

I squinted. "There's something in his right hand."

"Small?"

"Very."

"Good. Small's better than big." Resignation came into Durwood's voice. "Mice hanging in?"

Head still, I cut my eyes to either side. Josiah's hair gusted furiously from his head. Hatch staggered and, righting himself on an injured foot, screamed in pain.

"Mostly."

"Roger that," Durwood said. "Be careful."

Durwood's concerns about the exchange—that Rivard was onto them—had not gone away, but after last night's accidental pummeling, his argument seemed to have lost its force.

Quaid believed the exchange made perfect sense. Rivard wanted the Morganville facility hit, and the Mice had said they needed the kernel sourcecode to get inside and do said hitting. Simple. They'd given it to Piper Jackson once before; why not again now?

"Put away your tinfoil hat," Quaid had said. "Stop looking for a shooter on the grassy knoll."

As Leathersby stepped toward Josiah, though, his high-lacing boots pulverizing stone, I wondered why he was the one handling the pass-off. Why not an underling? Why not Yves Pomeroy, who would have the technical expertise to discuss with Piper if some issue arose?

Quit worrying, I told myself.

Maybe Fabienne Rivard didn't trust underlings with the kernel—and she certainly hadn't seemed to trust Yves.

Josiah and Hatch stood nearest the pike. Leathersby reached them first and began talking through a tight grin, keeping his arms at their permanent ten-degree distance from his sides.

What's he saying?

I moved closer to hear over the rotors, Piper on my heels.

"...beat you up, your boyfriend?" Leathersby jutted his chin at Hatch's bandages. "You American queers must play rough."

Hatch said, "What are you about, dude?"

"Got all them tattoos. That's a gay thing in the States, yeah?"

Hatch made a confused huff and broadened his already-broad shoulders. I watched the small box in Leathersy's hand, which he held by thumb and pinkie.

Slightly bigger than a matchbox.

Black.

Now it shifted, falling into Leathersby's palm. Maybe he'd squeezed too hard, caught up in the standoff.

Piper said, "Cut the trash talk. Just give us the kernel. Give it over and go."

Again Leathersby grinned tightly, sinews bulging in his neck. He eyed each of us in turn. Josiah. Piper. Hatch. Garrison. And me.

He raised the small box and considered it, quirking an eyebrow, tilting his head.

A flash drive—how I thought Piper had said she got the kernel sourcecode before—would be even smaller. Is there some interior container? Or is it rattling around loose inside?

Leathersby thrust the box toward Josiah.

"All yours, mate," he said. "Enjoy."

Josiah accepted the box—his thin fingers looked alien next to the Brit's puffy ones—and brought it close to his chest.

In my ear: "He make the pass?"

I didn't risk a response. I was on my tiptoes, eager for Piper to have the kernel and start reverse-engineering the antidote.

We got it. It's almost over.

Josiah shot a fierce look at the Rivard contingent. He hadn't spoken yet, Leathersby's barbs all aimed at Hatch or Piper, and seemed stymied by his lesser role.

He thumbed open the top flap on the box.

A white mouse—eyes the same red as Josiah's—scurried out and up his sleeve, the briefly into his shirt, then out, then leaped away.

In the scramble, none of us saw Blake Leathersby take a gun from his vest.

"Bollocks spies, the lot of you," he said, and shot Josiah.

Josiah's head popped like a balloon of blood. I spun away, wet flecks of flesh on my cheek. Out the corner of my eye, I saw Piper duck and red splatter across Hatch's white bandages.

Piper shouted, "We had a deal! We were gonna do Morganville—"

"Like hell." Leathersby lowered his gun and made a tactical hand gesture to his men—two fingers out, thumb twisting. "Boss Lady thinks we oughta handle Morganville ourselves." He sneered about. "Can't say I disagree."

A commando seized Piper by the arm. They were taking her captive. I flashed back to Roche Rivard, thought about the rumored oubliette, the dungeon in the bowels—which I hadn't seen but could imagine.

This is our fault. The guys and I—we put her up to this.

I rushed the commando and dislodged his hand. Piper kicked him and ran.

I ran too. We only managed a few steps before Leathersy's other men caught up and jerked us back.

Hatch hobbled to our defense. Leathersday planted one leg, pivoting, and fired a back-kick that dropped the bigger man.

Piper and I were shoved into an audience with Leathersby, who leered down at us superiorly.

"Right then, I'll just be needing the dark meat." To Piper: "Could be you'll get your chance at Morganville after all."

He motioned his men to bring Piper onto the lead helicopter, then raised his gun.

At me.

"Why—wh—what are you doing?" I said.

"Making tidy," Leathersby said.

I pleaded with him to stop, to spare me, I wouldn't say anything, I didn't know anything, Zach and Karen swirling in my head—all the graduations and talks and fights and dance recitals I'd miss, thirty second ago I was restarting McGill Investigators and now...and now...how had things gone so wrong so fast?

As words tumbled out in whatever combination I imagined could matter to him, Leathersby's face changed. A glint pierced the thickness.

"Davos," he purred. "I know this lass."

I was frozen through. Is this a bad development? Good? It must be good: I was still alive.

My overriding worry had been being recognized from Roche Rivard—a more recent exposure to Leathersby. But that's right, he'd seen me in Davos too.

Leathersby told a subordinate, "This lass was mixed up somehow with the hick. With Oak Jones."

He dropped the gun to his side—praise God—and began peering across the horizon.

"Rafferty and Jones, where the bugger are you?" He looked from one dune to the next. "I know you're here..."

He continued to swivel about. Identifying the highest dune—indeed, the very one where Durwood had planted his microcamera—Leathersby tugged his crotch.

"Yeah, mates! That's right—I got your woman now."

He gripped my elbow roughly and dragged me toward the chopper. They had Piper to the landing skids and were fighting to get her aboard.

Garrison—the last conscious member of the group, Hatch face down in gravel—stepped in Leathersby's way.

"You are NOT taking Molly," he said, feet wide apart.

Leathersby laughed. "You just saw me shoot a bloke point-blank. You rate your chances any better?"

Garrison's throat lurched. His eyes fixed on mine. He raised his fists, holding them awkwardly close together.

"Don't!" I said. "Garrison, it's okay—I'll be fine!"

But he held his ground, rear foot digging into gravel.

Leathersby shrugged. "Americans. All think you're in a movie, yeah?"

And fired five bullets into Garrison's chest.

I felt all goodness evaporating from the world. Piper and I yelled and bucked against our captors, but they had too many hands. Eventually our bodies were folded up and forced into the cabin.

Leathersby pulled the chopper's belly door closed and made a snap-circle gesture to his pilot.

The rotors roared to life. I lost my stomach as the craft pitched forward.

The co-pilot said, "Do we need to sweep for bogeys?"

Leathersby squinted through the whorl of dust.

"Not here—I will not engage on their battlefield." He faced me, eyes on my tight harness straps. "They'll come to us now."

I snapped both arms across my chest.

He said, "Ah, loosen up. Come over and squeeze in tight with your Uncle Blakey."