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next minute, you will be struck by a bullet?”
    “Sir, twenty percent probability, sir!”
    Coon nodded. “Gentlemen, pick a gun, set it in this holder beside me, and take up your position against the wall. Stand next to each other. I want both of you to be ready.”
    The men did as they were ordered. Townsend was bleeding and muddy. His bones ached. His skin was mottled and blue with cold. He fought to keep from shivering. Twenty-five yards away, Coon had gotten into a firing position.
    The officer gave no warning, no countdown. Townsend kept his eyes fixed forward. He thought the rifle was the one he had chosen, but he could not be certain. He watched as in what seemed like slow motion, Coon pulled the trigger. The soft click was barely audible. Townsend glanced to his right and saw Morales still standing. Coon peered up from his scope and said, “Sergeant Morales, nicely done. You’re dismissed.”
    Morales stepped away from the wall while the major switched guns.
    Less than one percent, Townsend was thinking. That was the increased probability of his getting shot. Less than one percent. He kept his eyes fixed on the muzzle of the M4A1. Beyond it, he could see the commander press the gun barrel to his shoulder and peer into the scope. He saw the finger move and the trigger being pulled. Then he saw the flash and at virtually the same instant heard a crack that reverberated off the trees and sent more birds flying. The searing pain in his side dropped him to his knees. Still, he resisted clutching the wound.
    Townsend struggled to his feet without assistance as Charles Coon studied the tablet computer held by his chief medical officer.
    “How did Morales do?” Coon asked.
    “His vitals were normal,” the medical officer said. “No elevation in heart rate, muscle tension within normal range, oxygen levels reflected a non-stress state.”
    “And you’re sure these patches are transmitting accurately.”
    “Absolutely, sir. Each man’s patch broadcasts a unique radio-frequency identification that allows us to monitor their vitals at all stages of the test.”
    “What about Townsend?” Coon asked.
    “He was no different from Morales,” the medical officer said. “Cool as a cucumber. Even after he got shot, his tracings look pure Mantis.”
    “Colonel Brody will be pleased to have these two,” Coon said. “Pleased as Punch.” He was grinning as the next pair of candidates approached.

CHAPTER 6
    Emily Welcome, wearing lime green headgear, bobbed about the ring like a buoy in rough seas. Shuffling and dancing across from her, Lou went through the rudiments of defense and the basic punches. The kid was a natural.
    No surprise.
    Lou had seen his daughter’s athletic prowess evolve from her earliest days chasing butterflies, into a burgeoning passion for running long distances. But this was her first time in a boxing ring, and despite her natural ability, it shocked him to think how easy she was making it look.
    Four days had passed since the arrest of Dr. Gary McHugh for the execution-style murder of Congressman Elias Colston. The murder weapon had not been recovered, but teams of divers continued to search the muddy bottom of the icy Pensatuck River. Still, the authorities sounded quite certain that they had their man. Apparently, the judge in his bail hearing felt the same way. Sarah Cooper’s request for bail was denied.
    Colston’s funeral, certain to be a massive, celebrity-studded event, was scheduled for the day after tomorrow.
    Without obtaining Sarah’s blessing or, for that matter, Walter Filstrup’s, Lou had decided he would try to arrange a meeting with Colston’s widow, Jeannine, sometime after the burial. He knew four years ago that he might have crossed an ethical boundary or two by taking on a friend as a PWO client. But he was deeply connected to McHugh, and wanted desperately to help him get on top of his alcoholism. Once he agreed to be the associate director in charge of the case, he