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A few minutes later Colter and Dorion left the van, and started walking uphill toward the command post, talking between themselves.

Which left the van, with farmer girl inside, unguarded.

He assessed. The battered white vehicle was big enough for about eight or nine people. No windows. Just vent louvers at the back, pointed downward. He couldn’t see in.

Was somebody else inside with her?

He just wondered this in passing; collateral damage, again, was not Foley’s problem.

Okay, get to it.

He needed to move on her now, fast, and get back into hiding on the south hillside above town, where Lark and the Oakland gangbangers waited.

Given who he was—a gun man, through and through—Foley was disappointed that he couldn’t shoot Annie Coyne.

No windows.

Besides, the vehicle was surely bulletproof.

But, he reflected as he returned to his truck for the three-gallon container of gasoline, it definitely wasn’t fireproof.

60.

Colter Shaw and Dorion walked up to the command post and sat across from Fiona Lavelle and Mayor Tolifson.

Lavelle was on the phone with her sister-in-law, who was driving over from Nevada to pick her up and collect the rest of her possessions from her hideaway cave. She was relaxed and there was a light in her eyes, and Shaw couldn’t help but think of one word:survival. It comes in all forms. There was surviving by avoiding avalanches and standing tall and aggressive to scare off mountain lions, and there was surviving by tipping a sports car into a flooded gulley and making a hidey-hole in an old mine shaft to escape abuse.

The woman disconnected. And looked his way. “You know, Mr. Shaw…”

He tilted his head with a smile.

“Colter…I’ve never heard of this reward-business thing. But I have an idea. You should open a subsidiary: helping peoplehide. You might make more money doing that.”

Dorion gave a smile too.

In fact, it was not a bad idea.

Looking over the levee, the woman added, “It looks a lot thinner than when I drove over it this morning.”

Dorion replied, “It is. The water’s eating away at both sides. Like planing a board.”

“Has it crested yet?” Lavelle asked.

“No. There’s continued high temperatures predicted up north,” Dorion said with a grimace. “More snowmelt. If somebody doesn’t believe in climate change, have them come to Hinowah and start stacking sandbags.”

The woman was looking through her notebook. Shaw noted that unlike his naturally small and precise handwriting, hers was loopy and bold and, well, sloppy. But, it got the job done. She’d filled scores of notebooks, first page to last.

“What’s your book about?”

“Fantasy.My hero’s a woman spell-caster in this mythical world. She’s been kidnapped by an evil king. Thamann Hotaks…‘The man who takes.’ Get it? Based on guess who?” She shook her head. “It’s a simple story. And it’s like hundreds of other novels in the genre. But why write something different? There’s a reason they sell. People want stories where good wins out over evil. That never gets old.”

And Colter Shaw—a fan of Tolkien—could hardly disagree.

He noted the corporals were pacing back and forth at the opposite end of the levee. The second SUV pulled up and Tamara Olsen got out. They were looking at the river and having a discussion. He guessed the helicopter with the bomb curtains was nearby.

Debi Starr pulled up in her cruiser. She parked and joined them. “Eduardo? Have you talked to him?”

Dorion said, “He’s doing all right. His wife’s flying in. They’re going to get him up walking today.”