“We, the CPD,” Ed said in a flat, official voice, hammering the Crown Vic’s horn at a guy in a white van that wouldn’t move over at a light, “are working in conjunction with special representatives of the forces of the federal government.” They flew through the intersection at forty-five miles an hour, missing the van’s bumper by less than four inches. “That’s what they’re forcing on Arturo. CPD and CFD are responsible for executing a mass evacuation of downtown, using some plan they drew up after oh-one. Platoons of soldiers are responsible for the bugs and rats. And don’t ask me what the fuck that means, ’cause I don’t have a clue.”

“It’s easy,” Qween said. “Uncle Sam just declared war on that virus.”

Sam said, “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. There’s no fucking way they’re gonna get all the fucking rats, let alone a billion bugs.”

“Maybe so.” Ed shrugged. “But apparently this Dr. Reischtal believes he can make a serious dent in the bug population, get this virus under control.”

“How the hell are they gonna do that? They’re gonna have to seal off every goddamn tunnel and sewer and drain.... What about the fucking river?” Sam was livid. “Nobody’s figured out that rats can swim?”

“I guess they got themselves a plan.”

“It’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Sam repeated. “This Dr. Reischtal, he needs his head examined.”

“I told you,” Dr. Menard said, trying to pull his seat belt tighter.

Ed said, “That’s not the scary part. The scary part is, your Dr. Reischtal, he’s in charge now. The president has just declared martial law in Chicago.”

The color left Sam’s face. He stared at Ed. “You’re shitting me.”

Ed shook his head, weaved around a long line of cars and went barreling down Clark in the oncoming lane. “They’re not gonna call it that. They’re gonna use something like a state of emergency or whatever, but it’s the same damn thing. It’ll never make the news, but Arturo said it’s been made quite clear to all the concerned parties. The federal government is in charge, but they’re handing the ball over to a special branch of the CDC. Dr. Reischtal is the last word. We’re supposed to steer clear.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam asked. “What are we supposed to do then? Aren’t we helping out with the evacuation?”

Ed got back in on their side of the yellow lines and hit the horn again, trying to get a cab driver’s attention. “Sort of. We got ourselves a special assignment to make sure that some VIPs get out without any trouble.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam perked up. “Politicians? Celebrities? Athletes?”

Ed gave a grim smile. “We get to babysit all those bad boys and girls at the MCC, make sure they get out of the city okay.”

Stunned silence from Sam. Qween chuckled. Dr. Menard was confused, but decided it was best to keep quiet. Finally, Sam managed to get out, “You said yes to that job? What’s wrong with you?”

Ed shrugged. “We don’t do it, a lot of people are going to get hurt.”

Sam said, “And if we do it, there’s a damn good chance we might get hurt.”

Ed lifted his eyebrows. “Never knew you to be scared.”

“Not scared, brother. Just . . . concerned. Driving busloads of hate ain’t my idea of a good time.”

“Me neither, but you got something better you’d like to do with your time?”

“Yeah. How about driving a bus full of swimsuit models out of the city?”

“Shit,” Qween cut in. “You boys be driving me around. What else you want?”

Sam watched the warehouses and fast food joints give way to the bars and upscale shops and tourist honeypots of the Near North Side. They drew closer to the bridge. On the other side of West Kinzie, two police cruisers were cutting off both lanes, directing people to take alternate routes. Ed flashed his star at them and they moved aside.

As they hit the incline for the Clark Street Bridge, they saw that instead of another police car and sawhorse like they had seen last night, constricting the bridge down to one lane, there was now a Stryker and sandbags, blocking both lanes between the faded purple trusses.

The Stryker was a no-nonsense military vehicle, no less than eight wheels slapped under a wedge of gray, riveted steel, with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted on top like some cherry on a sadistic birthday cake.

“Fuck me sideways,” Sam said. It was one thing to hear about some military force taking over the Loop and quite another to witness it firsthand. Ed pulled up to the gap between the walls of sandbags. A soldier stepped away from the Stryker, holding his assault rifle casually, though it was still pointed in their general direction.

Three more soldiers materialized, ready behind the sandbags. The first soldier said, “Please roll your window down, sir.”

Ed rolled the window down and held up his star. “We’ve got urgent business downtown. You make us late, you can talk to my commanding officer, Commander Arturo Mendoza. You go ahead and take the time to ask him, you feel it’s necessary. Don’t blame me when he rips you a new one, dickhead.”

The soldier eyeballed Qween and Dr. Menard. “You all cops?”

“My partner just explained that we have urgent business downtown. You born this stupid, or did you have to work at it?” Sam said.

A belligerent cabbie pulled up behind the Crown Vic and hit his horn. He rolled down his window and started yelling. “Hey! Hey! You have no right, no right, to block traffic. I am a man making a living here. Hey! I am talking to you. I pay taxes. I am a legal immigrant. Legal! You cannot cut off the streets! Hey! You listening to me?”

“What Detective Johnson means to say is that these people would not be with us at this particular moment unless their services were required,” Ed said. “Seems to me you got your hands full with more important problems.”

The soldier finally stepped back. “Drive safe,” he said, and waved them through.

The cab tried to follow close behind, but the soldiers formed a line across the bridge. Another soldier was now behind the .50 caliber. He racked the bolt back and settled the crosshairs on the cab’s windshield. That got the driver’s attention.

As they crossed over the bridge, a deep thrumming sound reached them. Ed hit the brakes. They twisted in their seats to watch as the bridge, split in the middle, began to rise. It took less than two minutes. The Clark Street Bridge was up. A quick glance up and down Upper Wacker revealed that every bridge in sight had been raised.

As they headed south down Clark, Ed noticed lines of CTA buses, dozens of them, maybe even hundreds, lining the streets that ran east and west. More Strykers and low walls of sandbags had been set up during the night at nearly every intersection.

“Better call Cecilia. Neither one of you is making that interview,” Sam said, nodding at the clusters of soldiers at the corner of each block. “It’s already a done deal. This city has given up.”

“The real question is, for the moment at least,” Dr. Menard spoke quietly from the backseat, “is what are we going to do? You two have a job. Personally, I’d like to get closer to the hospital. See if I can’t grab anything that looks like it might indict Dr. Reischtal. Records. Videos. Something.”

“Doc, you want to go after him, fine,” Ed said. “I don’t know how you can, but understand this—we can’t help you.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

Qween said, “You’re kinda cute, sugar.” She gave Dr. Menard a wink. “I’ll show you a few shortcuts.”

CHAPTER 54

10:24 AM

August 14

Mr. Ullman was almost glad that the president had declared a state of emergency and ordered the evacuation of the Loop. It saved the general manager the embarrassment of explaining to the guests that they were being kicked out of the hotel so the management could exterminate a colony of bedbugs. This way, he could simply spread his hands in mock impotence and point to the official orders coming from both Washington and Chicago’s City Hall. It was all the government’s fault.