It’s late evening by the time we’re back in Renton, and I’m feeling like it’s been a frag of a long day. I’m twitchy as all frag. On the drive home on the freeway, a car next to Argent’s Westwind had to jam on the brakes, its brake shoes letting out a squeal that sounded all too much like the Merlin’s radar-lock annunciator. I think I managed to suppress my reaction—enough at least to keep from going through the fragging roof—but it was a sure sign of how far outside my comfort zone we’ve been operating. Recon flights and missile attacks? Give me a nice friendly knife-fight or gang shoot-out, please.