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  Right now, Scott’s eyes were everywhere, absorbing as many details as possible, as he and his new team, led by Captain Parker and Sergeant Wilson, entered the main area of devastation. What the hell had happened here? A terrorist attack? A major war between gangs armed with bazookas and grenades? Whatever it was, it had resulted in a lot of damage to vehicles and property, not to mention the human toll. As they moved through the streets, Scott saw cops and ambulances everywhere, overturned cars, buildings reduced to rubble, fire crews putting out fires both big and small. Helicopters whirred overhead – whether police or army, it was too dark to tell – and the evacuation, which Captain Parker had mentioned, was still underway, rubbernecking, protesting bystanders being herded into whatever vehicles were available and shipped out of the area.

  For a while Scott’s team helped with that, the protesting locals cowed not by the weapons that he and his new buddies were brandishing, but by the presence of Sergeant Wilson – known simply as Sarge to the men – who was three hundred pounds of walking mountain, with forearms bigger than most men’s thighs and a neck as thick as the average human male’s waistline. A tough but fair-minded guy, he could be a seriously scary motherfucker when he wanted to be, and right now he was laying it on so thick that even the LA cops wanted exactly jack and shit to do with him.

  With the evacuation complete – or as complete as it could be in a neighborhood of this size and complexity – Scott’s team were distributed more widely throughout the area to aid in the continuing mission of containment and retrieval. Scott was assigned, with three other guys, to stand guard over a crater so big it looked as though it might have been caused by the impact of a burning meteorite the size of a house. The area around the crater was bristling with activity, guys in hazmat suits sifting through the rubble, and using rappelling ropes to descend into, and ascend out of, the crater, many of them carrying metal secure boxes with “hazardous material” symbols emblazoned on the side.

  “Holy shit, Sarge! What happened here?” Scott asked, the spectacle chasing Captain Parker’s earlier order not to ask questions clean out of his head.

  Sarge scowled at him. “The answer to that question is way beyond your clearance parameters, Private.”

  Scott’s instinct was to test Sarge by offering his own theories, but a look at his superior’s face was enough to convince him this was not a good idea. Instead he nodded and apologized, and listened as Sarge told the four of them that their task was to keep the area locked down and to warn off any potential intruders who might try to impede the work going on here.

  “What kind of work is it?” Scott wanted to ask. “Who are these guys in the suits?”

  But he kept his mouth shut. It was only when Sarge had gone that one of the other guys, Suarez, sidled over to him and voiced a thought that was in Scott’s own mind: “So those suits and all that ‘hazardous material’ shit? You think what’s in that hole is radioactive, or full of chemicals, or germs, or whatever?”

  “Let’s hope not,” Scott replied. “I’m only twenty-seven, I’m too young to die.”

  Suarez snorted a laugh and moved away. But Scott immediately found himself reflecting on what he’d said, and was sobered by it. Twenty-seven. Jeez. His mom had been three-quarters of the way through her life when she was his age. And he’d been eighteen when his Uncle Tommy had called his bluff and dropped him off at the Marines Recruitment Center, which meant he’d now been in the military for exactly one-third of his life.

  What a day that had been, the day he’d signed up. Weird to think, looking back, that it had happened by accident. It had only come about because he and Tommy had had yet another blazing row, which had culminated in Scott yelling, “I’d even join the fucking army to get away from you!”

  Immediately his uncle had retorted, “Well, why don’t you? There’s a Marine Recruitment Center less than three miles from here. I’ll drive you there right now!”

  “Fine!” Scott had yelled. “Let’s do it!”

  And that had been that. Scott had woken up that morning thinking of college, and girls, and whatever else eighteen-year-old guys thought about, and less than six hours later he had enlisted in the US Marines. True, it had got him away from his hot turd of an uncle – so much so that once his basic training began, he had never seen the old bastard again. Indeed, to this day he had no clue if the drunken fucker was even still alive.

  Almost a decade ago. Hard to believe. These past nine years had been the scariest, toughest, most exhilarating of his life. Scott sometimes wondered what his mom would think if she could see him now. Would she be shocked, disappointed, proud? Would she think he had become the best version of himself he could possibly be? After his initial doubts – in fact, after an initial period of: Holy shit, what the hell have I done? – he had taken to his new career as though he’d been born for it. Mentally and physically, he found he had just the right stuff to excel in the military. The only real problem was his curiosity, his propensity to question everything. A soldier’s main job, after all, was to do the opposite, to follow orders without question. But Scott had never been able to forget his mom’s words – Question everything – and that had caused him problems at times. Not major ones, but maybe just enough to hold him back a little, despite his obvious prowess.

  Although he and his colleagues had been tasked with keeping undesirables away from the crater, which meant facing out into the rubble-strewn streets and ignoring, for the most part, what was happening behind them, Scott was unable to resist taking sneaky peeks over his shoulder whenever he got the chance.

  One thing that intrigued him was the shape and consistency of the crater. He’d assumed something had fallen from above with enough of an impact to smash its way deep into the ground, but on closer inspection he realized that the edges of the crater were angled upwards, like the lip of a volcano, which suggested that something had burst up from underneath rather than the other way round. Additionally, the inside walls of the crater, which he glimpsed now and then, illuminated as they were by the headlamps of the guys clambering in and out, were smooth and shiny like glass, as though whatever had emerged had been hot enough to melt rock.

  He saw body bags, some of which clearly contained only partial corpses, carried out of the crater and stacked in the back of an army ambulance that was idling at the edge of the area. He wondered how many were dead down there, and what it was that had killed them.

  He was still pondering the variables when a skinny guy in his early twenties turned up and tried to march right past him, as though he had business here. Wearing a baggy T-shirt, filthy jeans, and sneakers that appeared to be held together by nothing other than willpower, the guy looked as though he hadn’t eaten a decent meal or taken a bath in weeks. Ugly track marks on the insides of his scrawny elbows and forearms made it clear that any money he had went straight into his veins. Scott stepped in front of him, blocking his way, rifle held across his chest like a makeshift barrier.

  “Not allowed here, sir. Please head back the way you came.” He was precisely as civil as Sarge had told them to be. Sarge had also told them to issue no more than a single warning before getting tough.

  The guy looked him over and moved to step past him. “I live here,” he said.

  Scott again blocked his way, this time raising the rifle and using it to push the man back with enough force to stagger him.

  “If you did, then you don’t now. As you can see, there’s nothing left here but a hole in the ground. Now move on. You are not allowed here.” All politeness was gone from his voice now. Most times that extra firmness took care of the problem. Most times there’d be raised hands, a mumbled apology or a half-hearted whine of protest, rapidly followed by a shuffling retreat.

  Most times, but not always.

  The guy screwed up his face like a fist and tried to push back. He reached out, grabbed Scott’s rifle and pulled, hoping to yank the weapon out of his hands. Scott immediately locked his muscles and the man grunted, surprised to find his
opponent as immobile as a statue.

  With the man caught off-guard, Scott abruptly stepped forward, hooked his boot around the back of the guy’s ankle, and yanked him off his feet. The guy went down like a loose bag of bones, landing on his ass.

  “Fuck you!” the guy squawked up at him. “I got rights!”

  He tried to jump up, still spoiling for a fight. “I wouldn’t advise that,” Scott murmured, and shouldering his rifle he knelt, flipped the guy over, dropped one knee into the small of his back, and had his restraints on the guy’s wrists in less than five seconds. Before the guy knew what was happening his ankles too were bound together by a thick zip-tie.

  Stepping away from his squawking, wriggling victim, Scott spoke calmly into the radio mic attached to his helmet. “Sarge?”

  “What is it, Devlin?”

  “Got an evacuee here who wouldn’t play ball. You got anyone who can do me a cleanup?”

  “I’ll get someone to swing by presently.”

  “Thanks, Sarge.”

  Once the guy had been collected and hauled away, things settled down again. Scott saw more body bags and more secure boxes containing God knows what lifted from the crater. Gradually, work in and around the area slowed, and people and vehicles began to drift away. Eventually only he and his three colleagues were left, guarding a hole in the ground.

  With no one to stop him, Scott moved closer to the hole, stepped right up to the edge and peered down into the darkness below. What had been down there that had attracted so much interest? His guess was that it had been technology or weaponry of some sort, highly advanced, and no doubt shrouded in secrecy. But whose technology? Had this been a US Army test gone wrong or an attack by a foreign power?

  He was about to raise the matter with his colleagues, both of whom were gazing blankly ahead, embroiled in their own thoughts, when a military jeep whipped around the corner and screeched to a halt. Scott wondered whether they were about to be relieved of duty, but the two guys who got out of the front of the jeep were not soldiers but government types in black suits.

  One of the guys was white and skinny, the other black and stocky. Both had bulletproof vests on over their shirts and ties, and both looked grimy and sweaty from the heat and smoke.

  A couple of seconds after the two men had got out, the back door on the driver’s side of the jeep opened and another man stepped out. He was tall, at least 6’3, but unlike the stone-faced government types, he looked as if he was wrestling with some pretty complex emotions. With his mussed-up blond hair and pale-rimmed spectacles, behind which his eyes looked red and bloodshot, as if he’d been crying, he had the look of a high school science teacher. And indeed, beneath his heavy-duty camouflage jacket, Scott caught a glimpse of a white lab coat.

  The tall man huffed out a breath, as if gathering himself together, and opened his mouth as if to say something. But before he could speak, the stocky agent pointed at Scott and snapped, “You! Come with us!”

  Scott looked over at Suarez, who shrugged.

  Scott said, “With all due respect, sir, my orders are to remain on guard here. I would need to consult—”

  “You don’t need to consult no one, soldier,” the skinny agent said, flashing a pass, on which Scott saw the letters CIA. “We’re in charge of this shit show. And these are very special circumstances.”

  Scott took a breath. “That’s as may be, sir. But I can only accept direct orders from my superior officer. If you will just allow me to contact him—”

  The stocky agent scowled. “We don’t have time for this shit.” Then he took a step forward, as if he intended to grab Scott and drag him in his wake like a misbehaving child.

  But before things could turn ugly, the tall man scuttled forward and placed a hand on the stocky agent’s shoulder, effectively stopping him in his tracks. Approaching Scott with a wavering smile, he said, “Forgive my colleague’s brusqueness, Private…”

  “Devlin, sir.”

  “…Devlin. Thing is, this is a matter of some urgency. I’m Special Agent Sean Keyes, Regional Director of the OWLF task force.” As he spoke, enunciating each individual letter of the acronym, he opened a plastic wallet which he had taken from his jacket and showed Scott a pass. Scott stared at it, though he had no idea what the letters OWLF stood for. “We’re in need of someone with your… ah… firepower. We have a situation just two blocks from here.”

  “Understood, sir. But I can’t just leave my post without permission. I do need to speak to my sergeant. It’ll only take a moment.”

  As Sean Keyes nodded his understanding, the skinny agent growled, “Just get on with it.”

  Scott made the call and two minutes later he was sitting in the back of the jeep next to Special Agent Keyes, who was staring into space, clearly troubled by something. The two agents in the front were also agitated, though theirs was a nervous energy, whereas Keyes seemed to have had some kind of upset. Scott watched sweat trickle down the side of the stocky man’s shaved head as he drove.

  As the jeep came to a halt on a nondescript street comprised mostly of dark and shuttered businesses – including several bars and restaurants, which would ordinarily have been bustling – and the two agents at the front got out, Scott turned to Keyes and said, “Can I ask what the situation is here, sir?”

  Keyes snapped out of his introspection and regarded him, eyes blinking rapidly. He paused just long enough for Scott to wonder whether he was going to answer at all, and then he said quietly, “Get out of the jeep, Private Devlin. I want to show you something.”

  Scott complied. Keyes raised an arm and flipped his hand forward, a long forefinger pointing toward a black vertical crack between two buildings across the street. It was an almost schoolboyish gesture to indicate that Scott should follow him, and despite the unease he was feeling about the situation, Scott found it oddly endearing. He trailed Keyes across the street, and was aware of the other two agents, who had been leaning against the side of the jeep, falling into step behind him. A few feet from the black throat of the alleyway, Keyes halted and nodded down at the pavement. In a hushed voice he said, “Take a little looksee.”

  Scott had been so intent on the alleyway that it hadn’t occurred to him to examine the ground. He did now, though, and was surprised to see spots and spatters of a green, fluorescent substance on the road and sidewalk. He bent forward to examine them more closely, even sniffed the air above them, though he could only smell the acrid tang of smoke that hung in the atmosphere like morning mist.

  “What is this stuff?” he asked. “Some kind of chemical?” He glanced up at Keyes and realized that both of the agents behind him had drawn their handguns and were eyeing the dark entrance of the alleyway with trepidation.

  Keyes laughed, though it was a hard, bitter sound, without humor. Scott even had the feeling there might be pain behind it. “Some kind,” he said.

  “Where is it from?” Scott asked. He was thinking furiously. Although the glowing stuff was like toxic slime from some cheap horror movie, the kind that invariably ended up leaking into a river and causing the local marine life to mutate into giant, man-eating monsters, what was more likely was that it was some kind of fuel or lubricant. Something that had leaked from a machine, maybe, or a weapon.

  His curiosity was not satisfied by Keyes, though. Instead, the tall man merely muttered, “I’m afraid that information is classified.”

  Scott considered how to respond. Keyes had told him he’d been requisitioned because of his firepower, which presumably meant he was required to take point following the trail into the alleyway. Wasn’t it reasonable, therefore, to expect a little more information about what he might be about to face? Because classified or not, this was his life at risk here. Sarge had told him to obey Keyes’ orders, but Scott knew that Sarge and Captain Parker would never place him in a potentially dangerous situation without first giving him as much information as they were permitted to divulge.

  “Okay,” Scott said slowly, and indicated the a
lleyway with a jerk of his head. “I take it, though, that whatever leaked this fluid is down there?”

  “We don’t know for certain, but it’s a possibility,” Keyes replied.

  “And you want me to… what? Destroy it? Put it out of action?”

  “If it is there,” Keyes said, and suddenly there was a feverish edge to his words and to his manner, “then yeah. We want you to destroy it.”

  “But you still won’t give me any clue as to what I’ll be facing?”

  Keyes sighed, but said nothing.

  “But if it is there, I’ll find out anyway, won’t I?” said Scott.

  He left the question hanging. He wanted to say more, but was unsure how far he could push this. He didn’t want to face a charge of insubordination, but at the same time he wasn’t prepared to lose his life just because a bunch of suits saw him as nothing but cannon fodder. He stared at Keyes, inviting him to take the initiative, to cut him some slack, but Keyes just stared back at him. Finally, Scott reached for the comms switch on his helmet.

  “Sorry, sir, but I really need some guidance here. I’m going to call this in, speak to my sergeant.”

  “The hell you are, soldier!”

  The response came from the stocky agent behind him. Scott turned to see that the man’s eyes were bulging as the sweat streamed down his face, though whether that was from anger at Scott or stress caused by the general situation was impossible to tell.

  The stocky man barked, “You already called your sergeant, and we all heard what he said. You’re to put yourself in our hands, follow our orders, for the duration of the time that we need you. This is a sensitive situation here, and we don’t need no jumped-up rookie asking questions. Now, unless you want to get yourself in deep shit, you do exactly what we tell you.”