“We do it old-school. SOP. Building-by-building. Clear the street, mark the buildings at either end, move to the next. Any questions?”
The lieutenants all looked up from the map laid across the hood of my truck.
“Sir,” Lt. Graham spoke up. Angry. I’d give him three seconds to blow off, then he needed to stow it. “We’ve been dealing with a hell of a mess here,” he said. “I lost eight men when the Plonks opened up on us. They’ve got far greater firepower than…” He checked his tone. “…than we’ve been led to believe. How’d things get so ass-backward, sir?
Lt. Suarez was already talking over Graham. “We’ve got AWOL officers, sir! Chickenshits hightailed it out of here and left us wide open when the first shots were fired.”
“Slater, Ramirez, Koch, Holliston,” Graham said.
Suarez added, “And Haines.”
Holliston. I’d meant for him to be on the team, too. I’d meant for him to be lying dead with the others next to the disabled electrical fence, all loose ends tied. He hadn’t reported in since he went on patrol. I looked around and saw one of his men:
“Sergeant! Where’s your Lieutenant?”
“Sir?”
“Holliston! Where the fuck is he?”
“Unaccounted for, sir.”
“Has anyone seen Lieutenant Holliston?”
A chorus of mumbling idiots is all I heard back.
“He is considered armed and dangerous. He is a shoot-to-kill enemy. Do I make myself clear?”
