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Margo stands up. “At which point I assume we’ll still be at least ten thousand feet in the air. Is there a plan for getting us the rest of the way down?”

I look down at the floor. I stop talking for a moment. I brace myself. Then I speak.

“The four of us will evacuate the plane when I give the signal.”

Tapper speaks loudly, his voice quivering. “What the hell?”

“Let me finish. There is a ram-air parachute under every seat and cot. Please take yours out and—”

It will be a scene of interruptions.

“No,” says Tapper. “I can’t do it. I won’t do it.”

Margo’s voice quivers as she says, “I don’t know if that’s actually a plan, Lamont. That’s just jumping.”

“And crossing our fingers when we do,” says Burbank.

“Just keep one hand free to pull the chute,” Tapper says.

Then I say, as firmly as I can without sounding panicky, “Yes, you will do it. It’s what we must do. Surely what’s happening to the rest of the world is more important than our individual fears.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Lamont. You have capabilities we don’t have,” says Margo.

“I understand that. But this is what we must do,” I say. “It’s the only viable plan.”

“And what about this plane? It’ll just crash into Cape May, killing people?” Burbank asks.

“Of course not. I would never allow that. The plane is programmed to continue beyond the peninsula and dive sharply into Delaware Bay, which will, I assume, be deserted at this time.”

I tell them that the ram-air design of the parachutes is the safest launch-and-landing gear that exists. Of course, that does absolutely nothing to calm anyone.

Then I add, “I will use my mind strength to try to build a power connection between the four of us as we fall. But I make no guarantees.”

My team has lived a life of no guarantees for a long time. Still, I can’t help but sense a growing feeling of resentment as they slip into their gear. If anyone is hurt. If I lose anyone…

“Cape May is coming up in a few minutes,” says Burbank. “I’m bringing the flight height down. Down. Down. No further adjustment needed.”

Margo unfastens the three security bars on the door.

“Get ready!” I shout. “On my signal!”

Mentally I add—And God help us.

CHAPTER 66

MADDY HAS LEARNED a lot in her brief undercover experience. She has come to understand quickly that absolutely everything about her work is dangerous. Yes, Mama-Girl watches out for them. Carla Spector quietly pays off the police regularly, whenever a girl gets picked up. She even supplies the girls with decent medical access. But she can’t protect the girls from clients who want more than just drugs from the girls, and smack them around when they don’t get it.

Maddy has, of course, confined herself to playacting, walking the streets but never doing any deals. But even as a nonparticipant she’s been spat on, grabbed, chased, threatened, and called names that are astonishingly creative, as well as disgusting. Through it all, there’s no sign of the green car and the man with the accent.

One night—rainy and humid, with dirty water splashing her from cruising cars—Maddy catches a small break.

Two big guys, each of them with a round face and anelaborate beard, slow down when they catch sight of Kailyn, who is working the street across from Maddy. The car suddenly brakes, then makes a U-turn. When it comes back around, Maddy can see that it’s a green Escalade.

Maddy steps deeper into the shadows and throws a warning look to Kailyn, who spots the car and immediately heads for the relative safety of the bridge, where Mama-Girl can at least keep an eye on her.

There’s a screech of tires as the driver accidentally drives up onto the curb, his neck craned as he scans the street for Kailyn. The Cadillac has flattened the stop sign at the intersection. Through the windshield, Maddy can see the driver swearing and slamming the steering wheel, his passenger still scanning for Kailyn. Maddy takes the opportunity to memorize the Cadillac’s New Hampshire license plate number:

LT4 63Z2