Holding the muzzle of the M9 against the back of his neck, she searched his pockets, pulling out a cell phone.

Bret's last memory before he passed out was the beeping of the keypad as she called for help. The hospital, a modern facility, sat next to Junction 15 of the M4 motorway, a relatively short ambulance ride from the scene of the killings. The paramedics assured Caitlin that Bret and Monique would be fine and that she had nothing to worry about, but sitting in an interview room of the Gablecross police station in Swindon, she couldn't help but worry and fret on their behalf. Bret had lost a lot of blood before she was able to tie off his wounds, and Monique was still screaming when they took her away. The police had refused to allow Caitlin to keep Monique with her, and she supposed she could understand their point. She had just shot and killed four men and critically wounded another. Her running outfit was tacky with their blood, and she kept finding small bone chips and worse in her hair.

"We really can't help you if you won't help us," Detective Sergeant Congreve said for the third or fourth time.

The female constable sitting beside him across the table gave Caitlin a sympathetic look, which had no more effect on her than a small bird flying into a brick wall.

"You need to call the number I gave you and tell them what's happened," she said. "I can't help you. There is nothing else I can say."

Congreve, a chubby, dark-haired man with a large drooping mustache, frowned unhappily.

"Somebody will be doing just that, Ms. Monroe, but until then, why don't you tell us what happened. You appear to have been defending your partner and child from armed men. There can be no harm in explaining what happened, can there? Was it just happenstance that you came across the villains while you were running?"

It was total happen-fucking-stance, all right, but she remained silent.

Congreve exhaled slowly.

"Look, Ms. Monroe. You and your 'usband have a good reputation down in Mildenhall. We never hear anything but good things about how you run your farm, and I know from talking to the Resources Ministry that you're in tight with the government somehow. I just don't understand why you can't help me help you. This isn't going to go away, you know. Self-defense or not, 'appenstance or whatever, you can't go gunning down 'alf a dozen people without explanation. Now, if you want to see your family anytime soon, and I'm sure you do, you'll be needing to give me somethin' to go on with. Who were those men? What were they doing in Wiltshire? Do you know them? Do you know why they'd be lookin' to do you or yours any harm?"

He favored her with what her old man would have called a hangdog expression, shaking his head at the bother of it all and imploring her with big wet eyes to just do 'erself a favor.

Caitlin smiled without warmth.

"Call the number."

Congreve rubbed one meaty hand across his face and reached for the off switch on the video recorder.

"Interview suspended at thirteen hundred and twenty-three hours. Go call the fuckin' number, Constable." He sighed. "See what happens."

The uniformed officer excused herself and closed the door behind her. Congreve shook his head.

"What sort of fuckin' teddy bears' picnic have you dragged me into, young lady, eh?" he asked. "Those blaggers we took out of that field, they had the look of nasty men about them, they did. What you left of them, at any rate. And that one you choked off after you shot him, we'll 'ave him identified soon enough, and I'll wager he's no fuckin' altar boy, eh? Not a bad morning's effort for a little lady, was it?"

She shrugged, trying to keep her impatience and frustration under control. She needed to get to her family. Before somebody else did.

"Would you like a cup of tea, perhaps?" The detective went on. "Something to wet the whistle. Might put you in a chattier mood. After all, you've had a bad scare. Might be a bit shocky. Does wonders for the shocky types, a cup of tea does."

"I'm not the shocky type, Detective Sergeant," she said calmly. "A cup of coffee would be great, though."

The door opened behind him, revealing the female constable, who had returned with another cop, a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit.

"Sorry, guv," said Congreve. "Not making much headway with this one."

"No," the suit said in a tired voice. "I can't imagine that you are. And you're not about to, either. We have to let her go."

For the first time, Caitlin saw Congreve struggle to control his temper. The avuncular bumpkin routine slipped for a second, and his face flushed with anger. She had to hand it to him, though; he didn't lash out. A bunching of the muscles along his jawline and the clenching of one hand were the only signs of annoyance he allowed himself.

"Do you mind if I ask why, guv?" he asked.

The suit, whom Caitlin assumed to be the station commander, shook his head.

"Orders, Detective Sergeant. From the Home Office. No questions. No charges. Just let her go. Somebody from London will be down to take over the investigation this afternoon."

Congreve's mouth dropped open before he had a chance to compose himself. "You're fucking kidding me."

"I don't kid, Detective Sergeant. And neither does the Home Office. Ms. Monroe, you are free to go."

"Thank you," she said as humbly as possible. "I'll need my weapon."

"You can collect your personal effects at the front desk."

New York "Did you hear? They tried to kill the president."

Jules swung the sledgehammer into the tangle of crumpled metal and fiberglass with a bone-jarring clang! She was trying to dislodge a Lexus from the rear end of a UPS truck.

"Really, Manny? Who's they?" she asked.

"You know, the pirates, out there?" The small, wiry Puerto Rican waved in the direction of uptown Manhattan. "Fuckin' pirates, man. Africans. Wetbacks. Crazy fuckers, all of them."

The clash and boom of heavy tools on twisted metal and the grumble and roar of the heavy equipment, the dozers and scrapers and skid steer loaders, made it all but impossible to hear him. The clearance crew had been working on the pileup in Water Street all day and had made some obvious progress. An assembly-line process started with knots of vehicles such as the one Julianne's crew was working on, breaking apart the impacted vehicles. Salvaged NYPD tow trucks pulled the smaller vehicles over to the forklifts that would in turn load them onto army HEMTTs. The Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Trucks were eight-wheel vehicles with large flatbeds. Once their beds were full, the HEMTTs would bounce down the recently cleared streets to the river, where barges awaited the busted-up vehicles. Heavier vehicles were moved by army five-ton tow trucks or M88 armored recovery vehicles. All of them where headed to the same location, down by the river.

Another team of free enterprise types, some of them veterans who had served their time and were not subject to the resettlement program, would work over the vehicles. Luxury vehicles such as the Lexus commanded their attention for the leather seats, sound system, and other parts. After being stripped, they were tossed into garbage barges along with the rest of the car wrecks of Manhattan.

So far, the clearance crew had only reached the Flatiron Building. Some streets were still jammed, made worse by the recent fighting that had torn through the financial district during the early days after the Wave lifted. That said, at least there was still a city to be salvaged and cleared. Many urban areas had been reduced to blackened scars of rubble and ruin that stretched for miles in every direction.

Julianne couldn't help feeling the hopelessness of the job when she thought about the whole city still waiting to be cleared and the country beyond that. Not that she would be around to help out. But it did rather get one down if one let one's thoughts stray that way.