"The kids are all right?"

"They're...they will be. Want to see them?"

"Oh, G.o.d yes." He started for the door, then froze. "One second, okay?" Cooper didn't wait for an answer, just hurried down the steps, caught Shannon's arm. "Wait."

She turned to him. Her face unreadable. "What?"

He opened his mouth, closed it. Then said, "We survived."

"I noticed."

"And we saved the world."

"Hooray for us."

"So..."

She looked at him, quirked that half smile. "Yes?"

"Well, you said if we survived, you'd go out with me."

"No. I said if we survived, you could ask."

"Right. Well." He shrugged. "What do you say? Want to go on a date that doesn't involve gunfire?"

"I don't know." She struck a pose, paused. "What would we do without it?"

"We'll think of something." He smiled, and she smiled back.

"All right, Nick. But it better not be boring."

"Deal."

"Deal. Now go."

He nodded, started back for the house. Thought of something, turned. "Hey, wait, I still don't have your..."

Shannon was gone.

How does she do that?

He shook his head, grinned to himself, started for the house. The door was open, and he heard Natalie's voice, and then the three of them stepped out into the light.

Todd and Kate were both pale, and both had been crying. In that instant, he saw what had happened to them, all that had happened. The months he'd missed, and the pressure on them. The horrors the world had wrought. And worst of all, the things that had happened since yesterday, things they didn't understand, couldn't understand, but things that would mark them. They were wounded, he suddenly understood. Not physically, but not all wounds were.

The moment tore the heart out of him. A frozen instant that he would never shake.

Then they saw him. For a moment, they didn't know what they were looking at. It was dark, and it had been six months, an eternity at their ages, and for a second they didn't recognize him.

Kate was first, her eyes going wide. She looked up at Natalie, and then back at him, and then Todd said, "Dad?"

And then they were hurtling down the steps and across the walk and into his arms, and he was hoisting them up, all of them laughing and crying and saying each other's names and the warmth of them, the smell, the primal comfort, an emotional rush like he'd never known and always known, the thing that made everything worthwhile, and in that instant he realized he'd been wrong.

His part in this war wasn't over. Not even close.

His children needed a world to grow up in, a future worthy of them, and until that day his fight would never be over. As long as there was a war, he'd be in it.

But for a moment, as he hugged them so hard their bones pressed his, as Todd clutched his chest and Kate buried her face in his neck, as Natalie came down the steps and wrapped her arms around them all, as he smelled his son's hair and tasted his daughter's tears, the rest fell away.

The future could wait. For a little while, at least.

END OF BOOK ONE.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

There's an abiding myth that books are written solo, an ink-fingered dreamer stuck in a bas.e.m.e.nt making it all up. The dreamer and the bas.e.m.e.nt are both accurate, but I certainly didn't do it alone. My deepest thanks to: Scott Miller, agent, buddy, and brother-in-arms, who not only didn't panic at my crazy left turn, he told me to write it stat. Thanks also to the stellar team at Creative Artists, especially Jon Ca.s.sir, Matthew Snyder, and Rosi Bilow, who put the lie to all the jokes about Hollywood.

Andy Bartlett, Jacque Ben-Zekry, Daphne Durham, Justin Golenbock, and the rest of the Thomas & Mercer crew, who are pa.s.sionate booklovers building a brave new world.

I'm fortunate to have two creative partners. The first is Sean Chercover, collaborator and heteros.e.xual life mate, whose fingerprints are all over this book. Anything you didn't like was probably his fault. The second is Blake Crouch, who, atop the summit of a fourteen-thousand-foot peak, helped me turn the slenderest fragment of a notion into a full-blown story...and then gave me the t.i.tle. Drinks are on me, boys.

All the folks who read the book early and pointed out where it sucked, especially Michael Cook, Alison Dasho, and Darwyn Jones.

Jeroen ten Berge, the visionary behind the cover design.

Dana Kaye, gifted publicist and all-around get-er-done-r.

Dale Rosenthal of the University of Illinois at Chicago, who, over Guinness, disa.s.sembled the global financial marketplace and then redesigned it abnorm-proof.

Kevin Anthony, who built the beautiful desk I'll be writing on for the rest of my life.

The crime fiction community: booksellers and librarians, bloggers and reviewers, writers and publicists, but most especially the readers.

My brother Matt, who devoured the book, carefully propped up my ego, then tore apart everything that didn't work. You're the man.

Sally and Anthony Sakey, better known as Mom and Dad, who gave me everything.

And finally, the two loves of my life: my wife g.g. and our daughter Jocelyn. Nothing would mean anything without you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Marcus Sakey is the bestselling author of six novels, several of which are in development as films. His fiction has been nominated for or won an Anthony, Barry, Macavity, Strand Critic's Circle, Readers' Choice, Crimespree, Dilys, Crime Shot, Indie Lit, Romantic Times, and ITW Thriller Award. He lives in Chicago with his wife and daughter. Visit his website at MarcusSakey.com, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter, where he posts under the clever handle @MarcusSakey.

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