Jenner lay by the road toward the north end of the property. To his right, the battle was raging over the slope; he’d positioned himself well to the side of the fighting.

He looked back toward the dock; he couldn’t see Deb anymore. As they’d watched Craine head toward the ocean, Jenner had helped her into the kayak and quietly pushed her out into the water, telling her to avoid the main river, to paddle away from the ocean into the swamp on one of the feeder channels instead—heading toward the highway would be too obvious.

She wanted him to leave with her, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t, not until he’d found Lucy.

After the flare went out, the shooting became intermittent, then stopped. There was moaning, audible moaning coming from the field, and the low grunting of wounded animals.

How many of the cops were still active? The police sniper was dead, and Jenner had seen another cop killed as he slid down the slope with a shot pig. He’d counted four other cops pinned down on the hill; he couldn’t see Bartley but he’d spotted him in the pigpen when he’d killed the sniper with his machine pistol. He assumed he was still there.

It grew quiet on the slope.

Jenner decided to make his way uphill, find Bartley, warn him Craine’s granddaughter was in the farmhouse. No one had been shooting from the farmhouse; it might be safe.

He crossed the road at a crouch, knowing that if another flare went up, he was a dead man.

When he reached the upper field, he climbed over the fence, then squatted. The enclosure was barely three hundred feet away, but there was a new problem: Bartley had vanished.

Jenner hung back, suddenly realizing that not only might Bartley have moved, but if he were still there, Bartley might try to kill Jenner as he approached. Jenner swore under his breath.

Movement.

Beyond the bullet-riddled enclosure, Bartley was crawling across the slope to his men.

Jenner moved again toward the farmhouse; he’d find Lucy, get her out. He climbed the fence, crossed the road again, and followed it up on the far side until he came to a parking area with a handful of farm vehicles, a couple of hundred yards from Craine’s Volvo. He moved between the cars, edging closer to the farmhouse.

Jenner paused. It would take him a few seconds to cover the distance to the Volvo, during which he’d be in plain sight. If there was anyone in the farmhouse, he’d be cut to ribbons before he reached the station wagon.

He scanned the windows, looking for movement, looking for light, looking for anything.

But the lit windows stayed lit, and the dark windows stayed empty, and nothing moved.

Jenner would sprint. He would count to ten, then he’d book it across that space, just keep his head down and run full-tilt.

He counted, tense behind a pickup truck.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

To his right, the assault team across the field began to fire, shooting short bursts up at the windows. They were moving forward now, firing a burst, then running forward. Creeping up, sometimes moving behind shields, sometimes taking cover behind the carcasses of pigs.

The shooters in the bunkhouses returned fire, but in the poor light, without the sniper to harass them, and now spread out across the width of the field, the cops were harder targets.

Bartley was crawling up the slope; he’d move forward, then call an instruction to one of the other SWAT team members, who relayed the command with hand gestures.

The teams had lost two men, and several had sustained superficial limb wounds, but their action was coordinated now, moving efficiently, really covering ground. It seemed to Jenner that they were meeting less resistance as they got closer. Someone with a machine pistol in the far bunkhouse was raking the field, but the cops kept on moving.

Jenner stared up at the farmhouse. Judging from the firefight on the slope, Brodie had been expecting the cops, and had stationed shooters in the bunkhouses; no one had fired from or at the farmhouse. Craine would be keeping Lucy somewhere safe—maybe a bathroom, someplace deep inside.

The cops reached the top of the slope, and were readying the bunkhouse assault; Jenner took advantage of the distraction. He crouched down again, then edged up on his toes and focused on the shadow behind the Volvo. He tilted forward, then thought, Oh, fuck it! Two, one…

He dug in and sprinted full-tilt, eyes fixed on the Volvo; he’d made it about fifteen feet when Brodie punched the detonator.