The van was totaled.

  Its whole front end had been compressed like a tin can in a crusher.

  The engine block had been blown straight through the cab, practically loaded itself in the back compartment.

  I shuddered to think what it had done to any squishy human bodies in its path when that happened…

  But the craziest part of it all… the part that made just no sense no matter how I wracked my brain about it… was that it hadn't touched us.

  When I opened my eyes, I found it there—bashed up to hell and back.

  And it was right there. Right in front of us. Nothing but open air filling the precious inches between what remained of the crushed front bumper and ourselves.

  How the hell are we not dead?

  Cassie still slumped in my arms. She was unconscious, but breathing steadily. She seemed completely fine, except for a thick stream of blood trickling out of her nose.

  Not bad, considering we should both be a red smear across the asphalt right now.

  "Cass?"

  I gently shook her shoulder. She groaned irritably, but didn't wake.

  You are quite the puzzle, mystery lady.

  I groaned and let myself ease down onto my back on street, taking long breathes to try and steady my still-frazzled nerves. Exhaustion settled over me like a blanket. I could have fallen asleep, right there in the middle of the road, without the slightest hesitation.

  Except for the sirens.

  I heard them in the distance as my heart stopped pounding in my ears.

  I sat up.

  My first thought was blessed relief.

  "'Atta girl, Sam! God, I've really gotta consider paying you one of these days…"

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  The sounded far away at first. But Fort Bragg wasn't much of a town. They were getting closer by the second.

  And that's when I had my second thought.

  In a minute or two, the cops were going to be all over us. They were going to be asking questions and, frankly, we weren't going to able to give them many good answers. Within a few hours, every trace of the night's events would disappear into forensics labs and evidence lockers, absorbed into an investigation likely to last years before any information resurfaced into the public domain.

  And I would lose any chance at getting a crack at the bastards that had tried to kill me and my new friend.

  Who cares? What good is it going to do you to go poking your nose into this thing any more? Let the heroic public servants do their job and wash your hands of it!

  Good advice. I knew it was good advice.

  But… I just can't resist a puzzle.

  Never could.

  Carefully, I shed my jacket, trying to jostle her as little as possible. I rolled it into a little bundle and gentle shifted it under her head so I could slip out from under her without dropping her skull onto the street.

  The sirens were coming up fast. I didn't have long. Another minute or two and our foggy morning street would be bathed in red and blue flashing lights.

  I hobbled to the back of the van, the only part of the thing that wasn't utterly crumpled, trying to ignore the ache in my legs.

  I grabbed the handle of the cargo door and gave it a wrench.

  "Good Lord!"

  The stink of broken bodies greeted be as the door opened. The interior of the van was pure horror-show, a jumbled mess off twisted metal and plastic, and all of it coated in a chunky spaghetti sauce that I presumed to be all that was left of the poor bastards in the front seats when whatever it was had happened.

  I almost vomited from the visceral stench of it all.

  Covering my mouth and nose as best I could, I searched through the rubble littering the van's floor—mostly loose ammunition, broken bits of assault rifles, and a whole catalogue of bolts, screws, and other misplaced parts of van thrown all askew. All things you'd expect to see after a nasty crash.

  Except… there was also something else.

  Scattered about, under all the heaps of bullets and debris, were about a baker's dozen of slim, paper pamphlets. I knew the type by sight. My dad was a preacher, after all. I grew up with the same type of little pamphlets practically hanging from my crib.

  In the evangelical world we called the "Tracts."

  One of these things is not like the others…

  I swept a few bullets off the one closest to me and picked it up.

  It was a tract all right, but not one I'd ever seen before.

  I only got a quick look at the cover of the thing. A blue and black image depicted a silhouette of a man standing on the seaside and something about about a "Father" written in bold letters above.

  Typical religious claptrap.

  I stuffed the thing into my pocket and slammed the van door shut.

  Just in time, too. As the latch clapped shut, the boys in blue finally arrived.

  I waved at them as they came roaring down the street, lights spinning, wheels screeching.

  I walked wearily back to where I'd left Cassie and plopped down beside her again on the street with a groan, utterly spent. With the giddiness of a drunk I grinned and flung up my hands and let the wail of the sirens wash over me.