Trouble came with Inmate No. 928743.

Inmate No. 928743 didn’t want to get his wristband scanned. Every prisoner wore one. They were all brand new, made of the same plastic that was used in clothing store security tags. Shockproof. Waterproof. Came with a bar code that identified the prisoner. Ed had demanded that they scan the codes at every step, just to keep track, so a guard would scan the number of every prisoner as they got on the bus.

Ed monitored everything from inside, eyes flicking across a bank of monitors. He used his phone to talk to Sam. For everything else he gave orders to the warden, who passed it on to the appropriate personnel. He had just sent the first batch of truly dangerous repeat offenders out to the buses, mixed with an equal number of first timers.

The biggest threats to the MCC evacuation were the guys awaiting sentencing for heavy crimes like murder, aggravated assault, and rape. They’d already been found guilty, probably had burned through an appeal or two, and were just sitting around to find out how many years they were going to spend behind bars. They were the walking definition of nothing to lose.

Inmate No. 928743 clasped his cuffed hands at his waist when the guard held up the scanner and said, “No.”

The guard stepped back across the sidewalk, putting some distance between himself and the prisoner, trained to withdraw from one-on-one challenges. The two guards on either side of the bus doors watched and waited for an order. Ed watched it on the video monitors. He called Sam.

Sam answered with, “Already on it.” While Ed had been watching from deep inside the prison, Sam was outside, leaning against the wall, chewing a fresh stick of gum, and watching the prisoners step on the buses. He’d been expecting someone like this, an opportunist who could smell the insanity on the wind, taste the chaos impatiently waiting just under the crumbling surface of order, someone who would test the limits of authority.

Sam made eye contact with a guard who carried a twelve-gauge and made sure the guard was paying attention. Then he moved toward Inmate No. 928743. “Afternoon.”

The prisoner cocked his head and regarded Sam coolly.

Sam smiled. “Listen, I don’t care what your problem is. My advice, get over it. This is your first and only warning.”

Inmate No. 928743 planted his feet shoulder-width apart, and smiled right back, equally scary and empty. Amateur tattoos, bluish gray in the hazy sunlight, crawled up his neck and all over his bald skull. “My civil rights are being violated.”

“No, no, they’re not,” Sam said. “Not yet.” With no wasted movement, he brought his lower leg up, square and true, smashing the tibia bone into Inmate’s No. 928743’s testicles. The seismic shock had barely begun rising from the prisoner’s torso into his chest when Sam broke his nose with a fast little jab.

As a teenager, Sam had taken classes from an old ex-Israeli soldier who had showed the lanky boy a few vicious Krav Maga moves. The man’s fighting philosophy was basically that if anyone was threating you, then you hurt them before they had a chance to hurt you, and hurt them bad enough that by the time they’re even thinking about getting up off the floor, you’re far, far way.

Blood exploded from Inmate No. 928743’s nostrils the same time the devastating effect of his crushed testicles hit his brain. He went down like a rotten tree, every part of him collapsing into the concrete. Sam had to give the guy credit. Inmate No. 928743 still managed to crawl forward a few feet before he curled into a fetal position and vomited on himself. Urine stained the front of his pants.

Sam turned to the guard with the .12 gauge. The guard tossed the shotgun; Sam caught it, brought the stock around and cracked the prisoner’s skull. Fresh blood erupted out of the man’s shaved head, washed over the tattoos, and spilled down over his already bleeding nose and started a puddle on the sidewalk.

Sam had deliberately hit the guy in the head with the stock, instead of some softer, perhaps more painful location, because head wounds bled like a bitch. Both Ed and Sam wanted the rest of the inmates to see the blood. You could be borderline retarded, even damn near brain damaged, but everybody coming out of the prison would understand what blood on the ground meant.

The massive lobby of the Fin was cool despite the sunlight that flooded through the three stories of windows. The three soldiers pushed through the spinning glass doors and took a moment to enjoy the delicious chill as it settled into the sweat that coated the inside of their fatigues.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” one said.

“We got thirty seconds before McLeary is on our ass,” another pointed out.

“Hello?” the third called out, moving toward the sleek front desk. “Hello?” he called again. “Anybody here?” He turned back to the first two. “Hey, you guys know if this building’s been cleared yet?”

They shrugged. The third muttered, “Shit. Just what we need. Wasting time checking an empty building.”

The second shook his head. “They shouldn’t have. Supposed to be on our grid.” He pulled out a radio and spoke into it. “Command? This is Charlie one-two-seven, that’s Charlie one-two-seven. I need confirmation on a location. Over.”

A burst of static from the radio. It swelled, then settled into a low hiss. “Command, you copy? I need verification that a building has been cleared. Over.” Still no response. “Goddamnit. These pieces of shit.”

“What do you want, man? They work in the desert,” one of the soldiers said. “Too many fucking tall buildings here.”

The third soldier stuck his head in the back office. “Hello? Hello? Anybody here? Anybody?”

Deep in the back office, Janelle was hiding under one of the desks, breathing fast, almost hyperventilating, sound asleep. She had curled up under of the far desks, wedging herself into the tightest corner possible, like a lost lamb under a dead tree, frozen in both snow and fear.

“Fuck it, dude,” the other soldier said. “We don’t get back out on the grid, McLeary’s gonna shit a brick. ’Sides, isn’t Winston and those boys supposed to double back through, confirm that everything’s been cleared?”

“Supposed to. Let’s head back outside, see if the radio works any better.”

The first two soldiers groaned when they stepped back out into the sun. The third soldier hit the button on his radio again, suddenly shielded his eyes and pointed. The other two saw the rat at once, working its way along one of the graceful, curving flower beds, trying to remain hidden under the leaves. All three soldiers opened fire.

Chips of concrete, flower petals, dirt, fertilizer, and rat flesh exploded into a pink and brown cloud. When the dust settled, there wasn’t enough left of the rat to fill a sandwich Baggie.

“I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t fun,” one of the soldiers said as they wandered over to the flowers to look for any more rats. The gunfire attracted the attention of one of the grid commanders. Once he understood that it was only one rat, he sent a decon crew over to spray the area down with the sterilization foam.

Behind them, the lobby remained empty and quiet.

Sergeant Reaves said nothing as he surveyed Don’s hospital room. He wore a hazmat suit, minus the helmet. His expression never changed as he regarded bloody corpse, the tire tracks in the blood on the floor, the overturned camera, the open cabinets. He paused and tilted his head when he saw the dead bugs. When his gaze settled on Tommy, Tommy tried not to look like a child who’d been caught trying to steal a cookie and had accidentally knocked the cookie jar to the floor where it shattered. Sergeant Reaves’s gaze never wavered.