He turned up Fifth Avenue. It was a straight run to the park from here.

"Are you okay, Major?"

"I think so."

They covered the next few blocks in silence. Morgan fiddled with the radio briefly. He strummed the dash.

"What do you think would have happened if we'd walked on in there?"

"Let's not play that game, Darren."

"You think Hardas would have come with us?"

Hardas's loss was a yawning pit in his gut. This wasn't helping.

Kennedy said, "There might have been more agents in the area. They were Wetworks. We'd be in body bags right about now."

"I'm just saying, what do you think would have happened? Would Hardas have come with us?"

All Morgan needed was the right answer.

"I think so," Kennedy replied. "I just don't know how I could have left any of them behind."

Morgan nodded dolefully.

"Except for you, of course."

"Huh?" Morgan was examining his face.

Kennedy permitted a curl at the edge of his lips.

"Come to think of it," Morgan said, "two of you is more than I could handle."

Kennedy laughed outright. The park appeared ahead.

"I'm sorry, Darren. About Hardas."

"I know."

They left the sedan on 58th and walked the block to the park. They scaled the brittle brickwork and began working their way through the undergrowth to the glade.

"What are you going to tell Patricia?"

"You saw the look on her face when we were leaving." Kennedy slowed his steps. "I think she already knew."

"Does this mean we're going to fail?" Morgan asked.

"If there's anything the last few days have taught me, it's this." Kennedy reached over and squeezed Morgan's shoulder. "Nothing is set in stone."

They pressed on through thickening brushwood. Kennedy, somehow attuned, felt the carapace's presence before sighting its alien bulk crouched amid the dripping green. Patricia and Shine sat on a spread of canvas beneath its squat carriage. Doc was examining one of the struts. Kennedy could see that the surface of the machine was scorched black in places, perhaps caught in the backwash of Lightholler's rocket-launcher.

It was fifteen minutes till extraction.

Malcolm gazed up at him with mournful eyes. "Are you okay, Joseph?"

Kennedy nodded. "You aren't surprised?"

She blinked slowly. "No."

He couldn't repress the next question. It left him bare and raw. "Do you hate me?"

She shook her head but her lips were pursed in anguish.

He cast about the gathering, adrift. "Where's Lightholler?"

Malcolm said, "Think about it."

"Jesus Christ."

"What?" Morgan swept the group with his eyes. "Oh, crap-the tunnel."

"Why would he want to go back there?" Shine asked.

"To find the shooter," Morgan said. "To see who intervened."

"Don't you get it?" Kennedy spun on him. "He is the shooter."

"I think I've heard enough."

Someone was crashing through the bushes.

"John?" Kennedy turned, trying to form the words of consolation. He stepped towards the trees.

"No, not John." The figure gripped two Dillingers in his gloved hands. He tilted his head back to reveal narrowed eyes beneath the brim of his rain-soaked fedora. His delicate features, otherwise composed, might have brought to mind a painter or a musician. He stepped into the sward.

"Fancy meeting you here, Agent Malcolm."

She hissed her reply.

He looked to Kennedy and said, "Don't even think about it."

Kennedy's Mauser lay on the streets of Osakatown. He let his hands fall to his sides.

"All of you. I want you over there." He indicated a clearing to one side of the carapace.

They moved like the dead. He eyed the carapace and said, "Cute. What does it do?" He stepped closer and said, "Oh, sweet Jesus." His eyes flicked from Kennedy to the carapace and back. "You sneaky little shit."

Kennedy couldn't muster a reply.

"Webster wanted it dry, but what you just pulled in Osakatown wrote me a blank cheque, Major Kennedy."

Kennedy edged towards Malcolm.

"Any way you like it, lovebirds."

The Dillingers barked twice.

Shine toppled to the ground.

"So much for the scariest man in New York." He turned back to Kennedy. "That was the best you had to offer?"

"Yes." Kennedy was smiling now.

"What's so fucking funny?"

"You have a knife blade sticking out of your chest."

Cooper glanced down at the sliver of metal embedded between his ribs. "Fuck."

He glanced across the clearing. An empty handle sat in Shine's lifeless hand. "Fuck."

He coughed up blood, staggered forwards and said to Kennedy, "You're coming with me."

Kennedy was hurled to the ground by the blast, his chest a searing explosion of agony. He raised his head from the muck to eye his killer.

"You're coming with me." The assassin dropped to his knees as if relishing this final exchange. There was another blast and he pitched forwards into the mud.

Lightholler stood behind him.

"You took a shot to the chest, Joseph. I'm hoping that blue shirt of yours lived up to its name."

Kennedy clutched at his chest. The armour had held. He felt the puckered gap where the material had torn. The skin below was a raised, mottled area of darkest blue.

He turned to look at Shine. He looked away.

Lightholler rolled the Confederate's body over with his toe. It made sucking movements as the mud relinquished its hold. "Who's this?" he asked. He'd pocketed the Mauser and stood with his arms folded over his stomach, as if suddenly cold.

"That," Patricia spat hatefully, "was Agent Cooper."

"Strange. I had an appointment with him tonight in Queens."

Kennedy gaped at him with wonder.

"I've put Lightholler in a cab. He should be catching up with you at the Lone Star any time now." Lightholler coughed. Blood spilled between his lips. "I told him he's a marked man."

Kennedy's wonder turned to horror. He stumbled towards Lightholler.

"Never occurred to me," Lightholler rasped, "that one of those agents might have got off a lucky shot." His hands parted, revealing a darker stain on his shirt. "The prairie might be big and wild, but that tunnel didn't leave me much room to manoeuvre." He reached for Kennedy. His hands groped at the torn blue armour. "Wish to hell I was still wearing mine."

He went slack in Kennedy's arms.

VII.

Insertion The screen was a patina of burnished green and bronze.

Shine was dead. Lightholler was fading fast. Kennedy turned to face Malcolm with empty eyes. She placed her hand on Lightholler's wrist. She looked back at him, shaking her head.

"Doc?"

Gershon was making some adjustments on his keyboard. His reply was laced with grief. "Give me a minute. If I don't stabilise our insertion, no one is going anywhere." He typed rapidly as he spoke. "Get him out of the chair. Lay him flat. Darren, get my medi-pack out."

They all scurried about the cabin, as if haste might serve as a cure.

Malcolm eased Lightholler out of the chair. He slid to the floor heavily. A sticky pool of blood had formed beneath his seat. Morgan had the pack open. They emptied it hurriedly, littering the floor with rolls of bandages and syringe sets. Kennedy, out of his seat, cradled Lightholler's head.

Doc, at his console, grunted his frustration.

Lightholler's eyes opened. He said, "Are we in the desert?"

Morgan, bleak, replied, "Almost, John. Why?"

"'Cause I'm fucking freezing." Lightholler let out a blood-flecked chuckle. He looked up at Kennedy's eyes, which were dark beneath quivering lids. "Whole time I was running around with you I was dying."

"You're not dying," Kennedy said.

Lightholler winced. "I'm so fucking cold."

"Doc."

He was at their side. "Major," he spoke through gritted teeth, "we have to get out of here right now. I can't get a decent fix. The carapace is going to slingshot out of here, and I can't stop it."

"Slingshot where?" Kennedy's gaze was fixed on Lightholler.

"Nowhere we'll find." His voice dropped. "And not in any condition we'll recognise."

"Are we here?" Morgan asked.

"Briefly." Doc's eyes flitted from Lightholler to Kennedy, then he was up. "We have to move now." He had the hatch open and was already flinging their bags onto the sand below.

Kennedy said, "Doc, take his feet. Morgan and I can support his shoulders."

"No." Lightholler struggled weakly in their grip.

Kennedy repositioned himself, grabbing his armpits.

"No," Lightholler protested weakly. "You're not burying me in the desert with Martin." He looked up, pleading with Kennedy. His eyes searched for Doc. "Please."

Doc eyed the readout. The screen beyond showed rolling dunes, crowned by the now terrible aspect of Red Rock itself. He said, "Ninety seconds."