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windows growling like a hundred angry mouths full of glass-shard teeth. No human could possibly live in such a place. No human should live in such a place.
    As planned, the Blue Team makes the first move, kicking in the doors of all four entrances at once, perfectly coordinated. They don’t try to be stealthy—that’s not the point. They want their target to know they’re coming, to scare her from hiding.
    Dozens of dark-clothed men and women pour into the building, carrying black-steel weapons.
    “We’ve got movement!” someone shouts from beside Michael. It’s Corrigan Mars, Pop Con’s second in command. He’s looking at a different holo-screen, a schematic of the building, glowing blue. But not all blue. Not anymore. A red circle has emerged from one of the rooms on the fifth floor. A second red circle follows immediately after, chasing the first red blip down the hall toward the stairwell.
    “They were in a cold room,” Corr says. “That’s why the heat sensors couldn’t pick them up. What a way to live, huh? Always in the cold. They’re no better than animals, eh Boss?” Corr’s eyes are on fire, and it’s all Michael can do not to put them out.
    “Animals,” Michael manages to murmur, forcing his gaze back to the first holo-screen, which is showing the view from the Blue Team Leader’s helmet as he charges up the stairs and past the third floor landing. The images are so realistic it almost feels as if they’re there.
    “They’re already on the seventh floor,” Corr announces into his headset.
    “Copy that,” the Blue Team Leader says, his voice breathy from climbing three flights of stairs.
    “Fifth floor makes sense,” Corr comments. When Michael looks at him, he explains. “With no working lifter, the targets wouldn’t have wanted to climb more than five levels. Enough to be safe though, well away from the ground.”
    Michael hates how analytically indifferent Corr sounds. Like the targets really are animals, not fellow humans. “Right,” Michael says, only because he feels as if he has to say something. “It makes perfect sense.”
    The red blips reach the ninth floor, only one away from the roof. The dozens of red circles identifying the Blue Team on the stairs are gaining on the targets, but they won’t catch them before they get to the top. They were never intended to.
    Flush them out like rats , Corr had said when he came up with the plan.
    Michael realizes his hands are balled into tight fists. He looks around slowly, but no one’s watching him, their eyes glued to the projected images, dancing back and forth like they’re spectators at a tennis match. He unknots his fists and tries to remain calm. Showing his true feelings about what they’re doing could get him and his family killed.
    The Slip and her guardian reach the roof.
    “On your command, Boss!” Corr barks with his usual vigor.
    Michael takes a deep, shaky breath through his nose, but that’s all the hesitation he’ll allow. “Red Team go,” he says firmly.
    The view on the first screen changes to a wide shot of the roof, where a young girl cowers behind a tall man, likely her father. She has blond hair—long, knotted and tangled.
    Above them, a Hawk appears from thin air, the drone’s chameleon-like skin changing from its mimic of the blue sky to a standard black metallic sheen. The man shouts something, ushering his daughter back toward the door, where the Blue Team Leader is already emerging onto the roof.
    The father doesn’t know where to stand now, as he desperately hugs his daughter, trying to protect her from all sides.
    Ropes drop from the Hawk, and six Red Team members slide down gracefully, their heavy boots stomping on the rooftop. The view changes once more, to a close up of the man and his daughter from the eyes of the Red Team Leader.
    Red because of blood , Corr had said when he named the teams.
    “Please,” the man says, still trying to keep his body between his daughter and the guns.