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rain and bits of ice into the face of Thadeus “Tad” McMillian Jr.

He hoped his little brother wouldn’t wake up. When Sam woke up, he cried loud. Real, real loud. His cries always brought Mom and Dad.

Mom and Dad, who wanted to get Tad.

Tad got down off of his toy box. He picked up the box and lugged it over to his brother’s crib. Carrying it hurt the blisters on his hands, but he had to stand on the toy box to reach inside the crib, just like he needed it to reach the sliding window’s latch. Tad set the box down next to the crib, stood on top and reached in to pull the blankets up tight under the baby’s chin. That would keep Sam warm. Tad gently brushed his brother’s hair, then leaned in and kissed the baby on the forehead.

“Good-bye,” Tad whispered.

He got down and lugged the box to the window one last time.

“Good luck, Sam,” Tad said quietly, looking back at his brother. “I really hope you don’t wind up like Sara.”

Tad held on to the window frame as he put his feet up on the metal sash. Freezing rain instantly soaked his shirt. Bits of wet ice stung his face. A gust of wind almost blew him back, but he adjusted his balance and held on.

It was better this way. Anything was better than staying here.

Tad McMillian jumped into the night.

OGDEN GETS READY TO RUMBLE

Not too far outside of South Bloomingville, Ohio, in the hushed darkness of winter woods, Colonel Charlie Ogden stood tall behind a loose line of nine men. The men were his personal squad, Fifth Platoon, X-Ray Company, Domestic Reaction Battalion. X-Ray Company was the unit’s official name, but in the usual testosterone-stoked spirit of the military the men called themselves something else.

They called themselves the Exterminators.

The boys had even come up with unit insignia: a lightning bolt hitting an upside-down cockroach. They wore it on the right shoulder. Under it they added small black triangle patches for each combat mission, and decorated the triangle with a white X for each monster killed.

Ogden’s sleeve had two black triangles. The first triangle bore two white X ’s. That was because Colonel Charlie Ogden didn’t sit in a Hummer miles from the action. He led from the front. And when you led from the front, sometimes you had to fight.

But that didn’t mean he was stupid—his personal squad was the best of the Exterminators, men who could chew rusty Buicks and shit stainless-steel nails. The fifth platoon of any company usually consisted of support staff, drivers, armorers—mostly noncombat troops—but since Ogden could do just about whatever he wanted, he’d given himself a personal guard that could jump into any fight at any time.

On Ogden’s left stood Corporal Jeff Cope, his ten-pounds-too-heavy communications man. On his right, the swarthy Sergeant Major Lucas Mazagatti, his top NCO. Behind him, observing, stood the overly tanned Captain David Lodge, commander of Whiskey Company, and Lodge’s massive, intense sergeant major, Devon “Nails” Nealson.

“Give me an update, Corporal,” Ogden said.

“Third Platoon will be in position, due west of the target, in ten minutes,” Cope said. “Fourth will take up security posture to the northwest of target in twenty minutes. First and Second platoons in position just ahead of us, sir.”

The 120 men of X-Ray Company were almost ready.

“Excellent,” Ogden said. “Air support?”

“Predator drones to northeast of target,” Cope said. “Four Apaches on station one mile out. Target is painted, the Apaches can destroy it at any time. Two F-15Es with GBU-31s on station five miles out. Two more F-15Es in reserve, seven miles out.”

“Very well.”

He turned to face Captain Lodge. “How about you, David?”

“Whiskey Company is a mile due west, Colonel,” Lodge said. “We’re ready to go.”

Nealson leaned forward to speak, or more accurately for his six-foot-three frame, he leaned down. “Any chance we’ll get in on this one, sir?” He said it a bit loudly for Ogden’s taste, but