The explosion blew Doc off his feet. He felt the hard earth of the hill slap his back, driving the wind out of him. There was no pain.

Burning wood and metal rained down around him. He lay where he’d fallen, all the strength gone from him, and impatiently waited to regain control of his limbs.

He’d promised lives. He had to take them . . . or the god would be angry with him. He groped around, found the butt of his gun, and opened his mind to the flood of greed for life and blood he could feel waiting beyond it.

Harris saw the bright light from beyond the cabinet ahead, heard the blow of the explosion. The wooden block leaned over toward him, toppled, and began bouncing end-over-end at him.

He rolled sideways, sliding down the slope, scraping cloth and flesh off elbows, knees, ribs. The cabinet smashed to pieces behind him.

The towering column of flame illuminated the hilltop, the slope, the treetops dozens of yards away. He saw three men—Jean-Pierre, Angus Powrie, and a skeletally thin man he did not recognize—grappling together, Jean-Pierre on Powrie’s back, the redcap reaching around for him, the third man bound and caught up among them. They rolled out of sight over the crest of the hill further ahead.

The flash illuminated the lorries; Gaby and Joseph, out of sight between the rearmost two, looked up to see the gold-and-orange mushroom cloud climbing skyward.

“Oh, God.”

“They’ll be coming, Gabriela.” Joseph turned to look toward the forest verge. “Be ready. Wherever you watch, I will watch the other way.”

She didn’t answer. She stared up at the flaming hilltop a long moment more, then worked the rifle’s bolt to chamber a round. She propped the rifle on the lorry’s fender and aimed up the hill.

Alastair stood behind one of the cabinets that remained stubbornly upright. He leaned out to the left, fired off a blind burst, then moved over to lean out right. This time he aimed, targeting a man whose back burned as he ran; a quick burst and that target was down, burning but unmoving.

“Beldon Royal Guard!” he shouted, a deep, commanding bellow unlike his true voice. “You’re all prisoners of the Crown! First Unit, move up! Sixth Unit, move up!” He changed to a shrill tone: “Aye aye! Marksmen, target and fire at will!” Another voice, thick with the ­accent of Neckerdam: “Royals! Let’s get out of here! Run—!” He punctuated his last shout by leaning and firing again, and cut off his own command with a scream of pain.

He had no more vocal ability than any man on the street, but maybe, may it please the gods, with bullets whistling, fires burning, and men screaming, the enemy would ­believe it all. He leaned out again and swept a burst across the silhouettes he saw moving before him.

Gaby saw the first two men running down the hill ­toward the trucks. She held her breath, aimed slow and sure as Jean-Pierre had taught her, put one man’s chest in her sights, and squeezed the trigger.

The man’s knee bent the wrong way when his weight came down on it. She heard his scream, saw him fall and roll a few yards, and suddenly she felt like puking into the grass.

Instead, she ejected the cartridge and chambered ­another one.

The second man continued down the hill. Him she missed; her bullet kicked up dirt a yard below him. He skidded to a halt, turned, and began racing back up the hill. His companion crawled slowly after him.

“Left,” Joseph said. “Toward the roadway.”

She shot the bolt, then aimed across the broad hood of the lorry and fired again.

Harris raced after Angus and Jean-Pierre, and was on them almost before he knew it.

Jean-Pierre lay in a pool of something white and revolt­ing—his own vomit. The other man, old, thin, bespectacled, lay with his hands and feet bound; he stared imploringly at Harris.

Angus Powrie stood over the two of them. Blood ran down his left shoulder. He carried a double-barreled shotgun and pointed it at Jean-Pierre’s face. His face, illuminated by fire from the hill, wore a smile so cold and hard Harris would have sworn it was cut from ice.

Harris skidded to a stop only half-a-dozen steps from them and took aim at Angus. “Drop it,” he said. “Or I’ll kill you.” His words were punctuated by gunfire from the hilltop.

Angus didn’t look at him. He continued to smile down at Jean-Pierre. “Smooth action on this trigger,” he said. “Kill me, and the baby prince dies. Throw your own gun away and he won’t.”

Harris saw Jean-Pierre shaking his head. The prince was folded over like a piece of paper; Angus had to have hit him in the balls.

“I don’t believe you,” Harris said.

“Then he and I both die.” Angus’ gaze flicked up to Harris, then returned to Jean-Pierre. “Damned shame when it doesn’t have to happen, boy. I can leave, he can leave, you can leave, we all meet later and kill each other. Or you can decide to be a hero and kill your friend.”

Harris couldn’t find it, the perfect solution. The only way everyone could be happy was if Angus was telling the truth . . . and if Harris did what he said. He could feel the eyes of the elderly man on him, too.

“I don’t believe you.”

Angus looked at him, though his gun remained aimed rock-steady at Jean-Pierre. His expression was solemn, open. “Son, I give you my word of honor. Throw your piece away and we all walk away from this.”

Jean-Pierre shook his head and tried to get to his knees. He couldn’t; he rocked in the pool of his vomit. His voice was a pained wheeze. “Don’t. He has no honor. I’m dead, Harris. Kill him for me.”

There was nothing but calm resolve in Angus’ eyes.

Harris swore and tossed his gun down the hill. Jean-Pierre managed to get up to his knees.

“And the other one in your pocket. I’m not stupid, boy.”

Harris complied.

Angus smiled, showing the points of his teeth. “But you are.” He pulled both triggers.

The blast caught Jean-Pierre in the chest and face, blowing him over backwards.

Harris looked at his friend. Jean-Pierre’s chest and half his head had been erased by a paintbrush dipped in dark, dark red. There was white noise, a scream of static, in Harris’ head where his thoughts should be.

In slow motion, he turned to look at Angus Powrie.

The redcap was smiling at him. He had the shotgun broken open. He was pulling two new shells from his shirt pocket, moving them down to load them into the gun.

The static in Harris’ head grew into a roar of hate. In slow motion, he forced his hand back to the holster over his kidney.

He got the pistol out, swung it in line, saw Angus’ eyes widen with surprise.

He fired.

Darkness sprouted from Angus’ gut.

He fired.

There was an explosion. The open shotgun went flying and Harris saw raw, red-black meat where Angus’ left hand had been. Angus turned.

He fired. A dark circle appeared on Angus’ back. ­Angus began running.

He fired. Angus lurched forward and rolled down the hill, arms and legs flailing. Then the redcap was up at the base of the hill and running toward the safety of the trees.

He fired.

He fired.

His gun began clicking, the noise of failure. Angus disappeared among the trees.

Harris looked at Jean-Pierre. The prince’s one remaining eye was turned skyward.

And the white noise filling Harris’ mind found expression in his voice, a roar of pain that stripped his throat raw.

Alastair saw motion in his peripheral vision. He dropped, aiming left as he fell, and fired. The burst caught the gangster in mid-aim. The man fell, a surprised look on his face. Alastair switched to single-shot and put a bullet between the man’s eyes to make sure of him.

There was a thump from behind. He spun around.

A headless man stood there, arterial blood pumping up from his neck. His head was rolling away down the hill. He fell, revealing Noriko crouched behind. She held her blade in her right hand and an automatic pistol, doubtless picked up from one of the men, in her left.