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fold my hands in my lap, clenching my jaw. After a good half an hour of getting ready, the doors on the train car slide shut and the core members of my security detail return to the train car that I am sitting in.
    I wonder, briefly, what the outcome of this mission will be.
    Will we fail? Will we survive?
    Will I do my job correctly?
    Go with your gut , common sense tells me. Plan your goals and objectives just like you’re planning a mission. Just like Operation Angel Pursuit. Know the game, and you can win. Be strategic. Be tactical. Use that pure instinct that you have on the battlefield .
    Pure instinct, eh? I’d be way more comfortable staked out on a roof with a rifle. It’s what I havebecome used to. It’s what has become routine. But this? This is a whole new ballgame.
    A lot rides on me. I know that.
    I just hope I can live up to California’s expectations.

Chapter Five
    “How do you think the world will end, Dad?” I ask, sitting on the stool next to the kitchen counter. Dad is opening a jar of chili, halfway listening to my chatter. “Daaaaad. Did you hear me?”
    “Yes, Cassie, I heard you.” Dad opens the can and smiles. “I don’t know.”
    “ I know.”
    “Really? Care to share?”
    I push back my curly red hair and lean over the counter. All ten years of my wisdom have accumulated to come up with this theory. “Aliens,” I say .
    Dad busts up laughing .
    “What?” I demand. “It could happen!”
    Dad shakes his head .
    “It could,” he replies. “But probably not. The end of the world will likely be significantly less dramatic than an alien invasion.”
    “Then how do you think it will end?”
    Dad musses my hair .
    “I hope it never does, kiddo.”
    The first hour of the train ride is slow. In order to leave the station, we have to cross a trestle that stretches across the Sacramento River. It’s huge, old and rusty. I don’t like the looks of it. We roll along. The train sways right and left, enough to make you sick - if you’re sensitive to that sort of thing.
    “Cassidy?”
    The connecting doors between the cars opens. Uriah steps inside. He immediately gauges the sitting positions of Chris and myself, then raises an eyebrow. I give him a look .
    “Um…I thought you might want to meet someone,” Uriah says, turning his attention completely to me. “This is Elle Costas. She has the bomb dog.”
    This is a real asset for the security detail – or any military team – to have a dog that can detect explosives or poison. Dogs in warzones overseas and with local law enforcement agencies in the states have saved the lives of countless people by locating lethal explosives and caches of weapons buried in roadways and ambush points.
    I sit up straight. A sleek, beautiful German Shepherd walks into the car. He is calm, trained to maintain control even in a closed, moving train car.His eyes are dark and I immediately take a liking to him. He’s wearing a black vest.
    His handler is holding him by a thick leash and harness. It’s a girl. She’s young, probably in her teens. It’s hard to tell her age, exactly. Glistening black hair is cut short. Her eyes are clear and blue. There is a scar on her left cheek. A black shirt is tucked into black combat pants and boots.
    “Senator Hart,” she says softly, nodding.
    “Hello,” I reply. “You’re Elle?”
    “Yes.”
    “I like that name.” I gesture toward the dog. “What’s your dog’s name?”
    “Bravo,” she says.
    “How did you get into dog handling? You seem…young.”
    Elle glances at Chris, who is studying her closely.
    “I am young,” she replies. “I found this dog. Actually, he found me. Didn’t know he was a bomb dog at first, but the militias in the Central Valley did. They taught me how to work with him. He’s a rarity, anymore, Senator.”
    I watch the dog closely. He’s a beautiful creature, really.
    “This is Commander Chris Young,” I say, nodding toward Chris. “You’ve already met Uriah and