The Het guy seemed less surprised than I had hoped, though he sat in silence for a moment. Then he sighed. “That ‘incompetent asshole’ was the father of three kids, did you know that?”

“Then he shouldn’t have come hunting us.”

“Father of three kids. His body was dumped into Georgia Strait from a height, according to the coroner, though he was dead twice over even before he was dropped—a drug overdose and a gunshot wound. You people are thorough, I’ll give you that. As for Rachel Ragland, all we did was ask her some questions. We didn’t hurt her. Harmed not a hair on her head. Hell, Adam, we didn’t even fuck her, unlike you. And unlike you, we keep track of the people we come into contact with.”

“Spy on them, you mean.”

“Whatever you care to call it. And according to our research, Rachel fell on some hard times after you left Vancouver. Moved in with a guy who had a pill and alcohol problem, which he was happy to share with her. Courts eventually took away that kid of hers—”

“Suze,” I said, involuntarily.

“Suze, who I guess was fostered out, but I don’t know, our records aren’t complete on that. The point is, you’re in no position to be claiming the moral high ground. You don’t trust us with Geddy? How about this: I promise not to shoot him, overdose him with narcotics, or push him out of a helicopter. So help me God.”

“At least,” I said, “we didn’t kill Meir Klein.”

He laughed. “It was InterAlia that killed Klein, not Het. But yeah, we knew they were concerned about him going public. InterAlia’s management trusted us with that knowledge, because we shared their concern. Het was thinking about the future long before you idiots started selling Affinity home-test kits, you know. The Affinities need real governance. If not InterAlia, then Het. If not Het, the government will step in and regulate us out of existence. We—”

A bare bulb in a ceiling fixture flickered to life. Everyone in the room paused to stare at it. Moments later there was a chorus of ringtones, including one from the phone in my pocket.

*   *   *

I ignored my phone, and the Het guy ignored his, but he waved permission at his people: Go ahead, pick up.

A bad situation. But maybe not hopeless. Behind the buzz and tinkle of phones I heard another sound, one I liked a lot better: the wail of a distant siren.

That would be a truck from the Onenia County Fire Department, hurrying up Spindevil Road.

Part of our plan. By now some of the local Taus would have gathered just a few yards down the road, hidden from the farmhouse by the stand of oaks. The disposable Toyota would be there, too, with Trev at the wheel and a canister of gasoline in the passenger seat.

Dangerous as these Het enforcers were, they would have been instructed not to take any action that involved witnesses or would attract the attention of law enforcement. So what we needed was a way to take Geddy out of the farmhouse under civilian observation and without guns drawn. We needed a cat’s paw, and it had been Shannon who suggested the local fire department.

The most dangerous part of this plan was the setup, which required Trev to drive the rattletrap Ford up to the farmhouse and exit the vehicle after spilling and igniting enough gasoline to generate a vigorous blaze. The arrival of the Onenia County fire truck would block the road, leaving the Hets nowhere to go, and Jolinda would tell the firefighters there were squatters living inside the farmhouse. Best-case outcome: firefighters would evacuate the house, including Geddy and me, and civilian scrutiny would prevent any violent interference by frustrated Hets.

The Hets weren’t squatters, of course, and the owner of the farmhouse could testify to that, but by the time it was all sorted out Geddy and I would be safely elsewhere. The blazing Toyota would have to be explained, but the local tranche figured they could finesse that one. All good, then … assuming Trev could get the car close enough to the house to pose a plausible fire hazard.

The next thing we should have seen was the Toyota barreling down the lane. Soon, or the bluff wouldn’t work. The fire truck couldn’t be more than a mile or two away. We needed to make smoke.

But: nothing.

Radio silence.

And my phone had stopped ringing.

But the Het guy’s phone buzzed again, and this time he took it out of his pocket and looked at the display and put it to his ear. He said, “Yeah.” He listened intently. Looked at me. Looked at Geddy. Listened some more. Then, “Yeah, okay.” He turned to the woman on the stairs. “Rev up the cars,” he said. “Time to go.”

The sound of the siren came lofting across scrubland and groves of wild oak and maple on rain-damp air, too loud to ignore. The Het guy frowned and told one of his people to stay on the window until the convoy was ready to go. “Everybody else, move.” He stood up and looked down at me. “You. Unless you want to come with us, tell me what that noise is all about.”

I couldn’t help casting a glance at the dusty front window. No sign of the Toyota. “I don’t know.”

He slapped me. Open palm, but a hard physical blow. My head rocked back. The pain was as sudden and astonishing. For a moment I couldn’t see anything.

“Tell us what’s happening out there,” he said, “unless you want to come along with us.”

I tasted blood, like salty copper. “Fuck you,” I said. “I don’t know.” Which, at this point, was absolutely true.

“Fire truck,” the guy at the window said.

Tom turned. “What?”

“Looks like a fire truck up at the road.”

I could see it now from where I sat, a big fire-and-rescue vehicle, guys in yellow slickers climbing out of it. But no Toyota, no actual fire.

It wasn’t hard to imagine what had gone wrong. As soon as the phones came to life, Trev must have called Damian or taken a call from him. Trev would have said the rescue was underway. And Damian would have told him there was no rescue, that I had been told to drop it, that the entire thing was a completely unauthorized clusterfuck, to be cancelled immediately, full stop.

“Help,” Geddy said.

I guess it was the sight of the fire truck that set him off. Or the sight of the blood on my face. His voice was small at first, as if he couldn’t collect enough breath to squeeze out the word. His second try was better, more like a bark: “Help!” Then the panic welled up in him and took a grip on his lungs: “HELP! HELP!”

Not that anyone outside could hear him.

He leaped off the sofa. The nearest Het tried to put a hand on him, but Geddy bulled past him. He was halfway to the door when the guard by the window tackled him and pinned him to the floor. Geddy kept shouting, though the sound was strangled now by the pressure of the guard’s forearm on his throat.

I considered the window. Murky old glass. Maybe I could break it. And maybe that would attract the attention of the firefighters up the lane. But Tom had taken his pistol from under his belt, and he put it to my head. “Sit,” he said crisply. “Everybody else, out back and into the cars now. And secure that hostage!”

Three more Hets came down the stairs and headed for the rear of the house where the back door opened through the kitchen. The guard from the front window rolled Geddy over and tried to haul him to his feet. They were too busy to see what I saw:

The Toyota, at last, fishtailing around the rear of the Onenia fire truck, kicking up a plume of gravel as it steered wildly for the farmhouse.

“Two hostages,” the Het guy said. “Not your lucky day, Adam. Stand up.”

I stood up.

The car gained speed. I couldn’t make out who was behind the wheel, but it wasn’t Trevor Holst. Somebody smaller, somebody without the swirl of facial tattoos. The Het guy saw me looking and followed my gaze. “Shit!” he said.