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rafters, failed to dispel the gloom or chase away the deep shadows.
    Page ran to a crate and pressed his back against it. He peered around the corner into one of the long canyons. With utter blackness on the other end, it could have extended forever.
    The computer flashed a green E in the upper left corner of his display. Two lines appeared explaining why the Enemy possessed the advantage: Steyr = short-range weapon. E = long-range marksmanship. Page imagined getting in a firefight between the wooden walls of crates. His aim would not be as sharp as his opponent’s; his ammo would fall short. He slipped his weapon over his shoulder and put it behind his back. From the same location he withdrew a Parker Hale Model 85 sniper rifle. The deficiency of his previous weapon disappeared from the screen, but the enemy’s marksmanship continued to give him advantage. That wasn’t going to change anytime soon. He had to find another way to turn the tables.
    Page darted across the opening and to the next canyon. Straight as a shooting range , he thought. Precisely the venue of Ian’s best advantage. Here Page could never triumph over the former Army Ranger. No, Page preferred close-quarter combat, where his greater agility and confidence gave him the upper fist. He needed to get closer to Ian. As he was trying to figure out a way to do that, the heads-up display suggested a different strategy. Anticipating Page’s discomfort with distances and knowing he’d move closer, Ian—according to the computer—would try to circle around.
    Page moved back to the open door and slid behind it. He waited . . . three minutes . . . four.
    Patience, he thought. It’s not always balls to the wall . . . unfortunately.
    Finally a noise reached the sensitive microphones on his helmet. He watched through the gap in the door as Ian poked his head around the farthest row of crates.
    The colonel had taken advantage of retirement, letting his hair—still full and dark at sixty—grow long and shabby, sprouting a mustache and even a soul patch. Ian’s work at Outis was another way for him to let his hair down, as it were. The things he helped do there beat in time with his military heart, propelling the contemporary fighting machine into the future; but the Pentagon would never consider dancing on the razor’s edge the way Outis did. It was much easier to let a private company get its hands dirty.
    Ian ran to the next opening, peered down the canyon, ran to the next. He disappeared between the crates.
    Page moved out from behind the door. He angled toward the opening where Ian had disappeared. His helmet beeped. It displayed an arrow moving from the top of the screen toward the bottom.
    Page ducked into the canyon next to the one for which he had been heading. The system indicated Ian would anticipate Page’s move: he was probably returning to wait for him at the head of the canyon. Page moved deeper into the row. He found a place where the wall was a single crate high. He slung his weapon over his shoulder and hoisted himself up. Testing the top for noisiness, he crawled across to the next row.
    Ian had his back pressed against a crate, inches from the end of the row. He held a pistol in one hand, a knife in the other.
    Page backed away from the edge. He carefully set down his rifle and pulled a pistol from a holster. He shifted it into his left hand and inched forward. Ian was gone.
    He heard a sharp inhalation above him. He rolled to see Ian lunging, both hands on the handle of his BFK knife. Page raised his leg, and Ian landed on his boot. Page fired. The first shot tore a chunk out of Ian’s shoulder. The second pierced his neck. The next three caught him in the chest and sent him reeling over the edge of the crate.
    Page rose. He holstered his pistol and picked up the rifle. He jumped down from the crate. He straddled Ian’s legs, staring down at the bloody mess. He said, “That was too easy,