So Arturo had promised Ed and Sam four patrol cars, with two officers in each car, and a couple of wild-eyed cops on motorcycles who weren’t part of the main force that surrounded the Loop. Everybody else was spread out across the rest of the city to maintain the illusion that the Chicago PD still had everything under control.

Once down at Cook County Jail, they would orchestrate the unloading of the prisoners, then head back with the empty buses for another load.

Ed boarded the third bus and scanned the faces, which ranged from wide-eyed and panicked to openly hostile. He called Sam. They were as ready as they would ever be. “Let’s get going.”

“Good. Sooner we start this shit, sooner we’re done.”

Ed hung up and nodded to the driver. The driver folded his newspaper and put the bus in gear. Ed turned to watch through the windshield. He could see Sam’s lead bus roll up to the intersection of Clark and Van Buren and start to turn right. Ed felt a sense of calmness settle throughout his body; he almost felt as if he could breathe easily again. They had a long ways to go, but at least they were on the move.

Then the first bus stopped. One of the soldiers was waving his arms over his head, pointing north, to where the lines of CTA buses were trickling down Jackson. Sam hopped out of the bus and walked over to the soldier. Sam pointed east down Van Buren. The soldier shook his head. Sam pulled out his phone.

Ed answered the call. “Christ, what now?”

“Believe the old-timers called it a failure to communicate,” Sam said. “Seems that nobody told these boys where we’re headed, and it doesn’t fit their plans.” Ed could hear the soldier yell something at Sam. Sam yelled back, “And I don’t give two shits about what you want, so go fuck yourself, pal.”

Ed hung up and locked eyes with the driver. “You stay here, keep the engine running, and you don’t move for anybody, until you hear from me. Got it?”

The driver shrugged, put the bus in park, and whipped open his newspaper yet again. Ed went down the steps and out into the heat and humidity. He was surprised he’d gotten used to the air-conditioning on the bus that fast. He quickly joined Sam at the front of the first bus.

Sam was still yelling at the soldier, “—tin star jackass wannabe hero. You ever pull that lump on your neck there out of your ass, you might try thinking for yourself for once.”

“Okay, okay,” Ed said. He shot Sam a look that said to keep his mouth shut.

Sam shrugged, put his hands on his hips, and turned his back on everything, watching the El tracks, missing the rumbling and sparks of the trains.

Ed approached the soldier. “What’s the problem?”

The man wore a hazmat suit without the helmet. An assault rifle was strapped across his back. Extra clips sagged from webbing down the front of his chest. A throat mike wrapped around his neck. “You’ve been misinformed. I’m afraid there is no way these prisoners can be transported anywhere but Soldier Field for decontamination procedures, no exceptions, by order of the president of the United States.”

Ed considered this, then spoke softly. “Do you have any idea who is on board these buses? Take a hard look at this building here. This is a maximum-security federal penitentiary, understand? We are currently transporting over sixty inmates down to the facilities at the Cook County Jail. To put them through some kind of decontamination process, along with regular citizens, this is out of the question. We don’t have the man power. Are you following any of this? The president wasn’t thinking about this when he signed that order.”

“No exceptions,” the soldier repeated.

Ed felt his blood pressure spike. He said, “I don’t know who the fuck you work for. I don’t care.” He pulled out his star. “You see this? This gives me the right to do whatever the hell I deem necessary within the city of Chicago. And that, pal, is a fact.”

The soldier permitted himself a crooked, faint smile. “Look around. We’re in charge. And that, pal, is a fact.”

Three Strykers came roaring down Clark, each of them taking a position across from each bus. The rear door of the closest one opened with a rough hiss, and two more soldiers got out. Neither one wore any kind of insignia on his hazmat suit, but it was clear from the behavior of the other soldiers that these two were superior officers.

One stomped over. He had close-cropped, iron-gray hair and goggle-like sunglasses that clung to his skull as if they’d been surgically attached. He asked the younger soldier, “What’s the holdup?”

Ed said, “We seem to be getting off on the wrong foot here. These prisoners need to be taken down to the Cook County Jail.”

The soldier with the sunglasses turned to Ed. “Who are you?”

“Detective Jones. Chicago PD.”

“Well, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but our orders are quite clear. Every single man, woman, and child inside the perimeter will be evacuated and complete the decontamination process. After that, there is a medical evaluation, and then, and only then, will they be released. No exceptions. If we do not follow proper protocol, we risk breaching our containment system, which could lead to an outbreak. Then it isn’t simply Chicago that is in danger, it is the entire continent. We will not allow that to happen.”

“So tell me, what measures have been put in place to minimize the possibility of a prison break? If you planned this out, you surely recognized the fact that over five hundred inmates from a maximum-security federal prison would have to be evacuated. How do you intend to deal with these violent, dangerous individuals who will happily seize this opportunity to kill anyone in their way and escape?”

“That is your responsibility.”

Ed started to ask the hypothetical question of whether or not the man was fucking serious when his phone rang again. Shaking his head, he pulled it out to check the number. With any luck, it would be Arturo with a solution to this mess.

It was the warden. Ed answered it. “What?”

“We have a problem.... Something is happening. . . .”

Ed could hear chaos in the background. “Gonna have to be more specific.”

“We’ve lost contact with several floors.”

“Please clarify ‘lost contact.’ ”

That got the military officer’s attention.

The warden sounded frantic. “Guards were, uh, making a final sweep of the laundry facilities, I believe. There were guards lost . . .” More shouting in the background. Ed stuck his finger in his ear, straining to hear. “. . . floors thirteen through sixteen are not responding . . .” Gunfire, sudden and close.

Ed jerked the phone from his ear, turning to look up at the wedge-shaped building.

The officer stepped back, speaking low and fast into his throat mike. Hatches popped open on the three Strykers and soldiers appeared behind the .50 caliber machine guns like heavily armed jack-in-the-boxes. Another dozen soldiers ran along Van Buren and lined up on the sidewalk, their rifles unslung and ready.

The officer said, “I suggest you gentlemen step back and allow us to assess the situation.”

Ed ignored him, concentrating on his phone. The warden had stopped talking altogether. For all Ed knew, the warden may have dropped the phone. One lone gunshot, more screaming. Then silence.

Another dozen soldiers lined up along the El tracks over Van Buren.

Sam tapped Ed’s shoulder and pointed.

Ed turned and saw all the soldiers, the firepower. He lowered his phone.

The glass visitor doors opened and a man staggered out into the sunlight. He moved as if he couldn’t see very well, taking conservative, hesitant steps, holding his hands up over his eyes, to protect them from the light. He wobbled, confused for a moment, then struck out, almost at random, in a direction that headed straight for the building’s massive northern pillar.