“The blast radius is confined to the intersection,” Marek said, another succession of car horns blaring through the storm drain above. “It won’t reach the buildings, and our diversions will stop pedestrians from entering the danger zone.”

“What about the drivers?” Zyta asked, her hazel eyes grayed by the surrounding shadows. “We can’t blow the explosives if there’s a traffic jam, Marek. It’s bad enough we’re claiming the lives of eight men.”

“Terrorists,” Marek said, a little too forcefully. He rolled his shoulders against the tight-fitting jacket. “We’ve gathered extensive background information on each radical, and their rate of redemption falls below satisfactory levels.”

Zyta pulled at the collar of her blouse in repetitive motions, attempting to generate some air flow. “This whole thing…” she trailed off, searching the shadowy walls to her right. “The plan feels too much like Sadie. What’s the good of being Vanguard if you’re going to mirror her strategies?” Marek gently clasped a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Thirteen precincts. Hundreds of law enforcement officers and staff members. Desk workers. People locked in holding cells. Witnesses giving interviews—" “Forensics, medical responders, and members of the canine unit,” Zyta added. “I know what’s at risk, and I agree that we have to prevent it. I’m only questioning the method.” She bit her lower lip. Marek had told Zyta countless times that all “questions” were to be brought up during the pre-op phase, inside the briefing room. Second guessing during a live mission ran the risk of skewing the time frame. It added seconds that trickled into minutes and introduced the variable of impossibility. Marek checked his watch. Three minutes before the train passes. He needed Zyta’s undivided attention before they could continue with the mission. Her role didn’t require much talking or interaction, but it did require her to stay in line. To stay submissive. “The method is sound. Progressive.” “Progressive?” she asked, eyebrows hidden beneath choppy bangs.

“Aggressive,” Marek corrected. “Anything less would fail to render an adequate response. For instance, handing the radicals over to the police. They’d get locked up, questioned, and spill some names. Maybe even confess. But we don’t need names, we need public support. Higher ratings for our boys and girls in blue. And unfortunately, violence is the surest way.”

The sound of metal wheels grinding against the subway rails grew louder in the distance. Marek hunched down to pick up the spray-painted piece of cardboard, lifting it by a string handle. He leaned it on-edge and knelt behind its cover, Zyta joining his side. She produced a pair of earplugs and they each stuffed their left ear, their right already protected by their MET communications device.

The train’s headlights spilled over the cardboard and illuminated Zyta’s face. Her naturally pale complexion was golden from an application of spray tan. Artificial, Marek thought, a shiver running down his spine. All fell dark a moment later. Their twenty-minute window had opened. “Just finished wiring the last of the explosives,” Eduardo’s voice came through the MET. “I’ll be at rendezvous in two mikes.”

Marek tapped his pinky against the transmitter. “Train’s behind schedule. We’ll be late a minute or two.”

“Roger.”

Marek disabled his MET. He could feel his sister’s reluctance, which was kind of funny because he was horrible at reading people—that was her skill. But he needed her to be enthusiastic for him to be effective. It’d been that way since they were kids. He fed off her mood. Or maybe it was contagious. Either way, he had about thirty seconds to fix the situation.

“You’re right,” he said. “We’re running this mission by Sadie’s playbook, and I think it stems back to Law. He made her leader of Alpha squad, and I guess to me that meant she was doing something he liked. So I mimicked her tactics.”

“He told us to never copy anybody, Marek. Remember our training, plan for ourselves. It’s the best way to keep C3U well-rounded.”

Marek nodded. Thinking back to the mission’s scouting phase, he could almost imagine Sadie standing twenty feet from where he was now, pointing at the pillars to suggest weaknesses in the infrastructure.

He turned back to his sister. “If this mission pans out the way it should, Bravo will continue to be Vanguard. And I promise, we’ll place the minimization of casualties as top priority.”

“Ten-four,” Zyta said, professionally. “The limousine is on standby for evacuation, and we have motorbikes set in two different locations for contingencies.”

Back on track. Marek initiated his MET. “Eduardo, we’ll be there in less than one mike. Yolanda, Ivan, give me a sit rep.”

“Have I mentioned my disdain for the outfit you put me in?” Yolanda answered.

“You? Imagine how I feel,” Ivan said.

“At least you’re putting your skillset to use, playing dress up.”

Ivan cleared his throat. “Identity transformation is the term I prefer.”

“Don’t forget to enable your voice modulator,” Zyta said.

“That better?” Ivan asked, his scratchy voice now morphed into an elegant singer’s. “And please, refer to me as Sylvia from now on.”

Ahead, Eduardo had activated the mobile flood lights and was waiting patiently next to a stack of briefcases. He checked his watch when he spotted Marek and Zyta approaching.

“All right, Yolanda…Sylvia, the rendezvous is set for 8 mikes,” Marek transmitted. “That leaves you two for entry, one for setup. Make it happen.”

“Roger,” Yolanda responded through the MET, Ivan echoing her.

“Ten-four,” Zyta said, professionally. “The limousine is on standby for evacuation, and we have motorbikes set in two different locations for contingencies.”

Back on track. Marek initiated his MET. “Eduardo, we’ll be there in less than one mike. Yolanda, Ivan, give me a sit rep.”

“Have I mentioned my disdain for the outfit you put me in?” Yolanda answered.

“You? Imagine how I feel,” Ivan said.