In the year 2019, America is a third world country. Ten years earlier, terrorists had

detonated a nuclear device 80 miles in the air above the country, wiping out the memories of all

computers from the Rocky Mountains to the Eastern Seaboard in a massive attack known as the

Pulse. A massive economic collapse followed as the banks, stock markets, and commodities

brokers all crashed due to lack of information. After ten years, the economy is still in a funk,

crime and corruption run rampant, and the government is becoming more and more fascistic.

Max, an escapee from the secret Project Manticore, lives in this world. Bicycle messenger by

day, thief by night, she tries to eke out an existence and search for her fellow escapees while

being pursued by the Ahab-like Lydecker in the squalid post-Pulse city of Seattle. Recently, she

has fallen in with the charismatic Logan, who fights against injustice and corruption by hacking

into cable broadcasters. Now, a new player from Max's past has entered the game.

Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, 3:30 AM

"Damn it, Captain," Ron Jacobson snapped angrily. The chunky representative of one of the

local dockside gangs was not a happy man. "Where the hell are those AK-47s!" The irate mobster

shook his fist at the irritating Russian officer who stood by a closed TCBY stand. This arms deal,

which was supposed to be quick and efficient, was turning into a bit of an ordeal. The Russian man and

the four lesser soldiers attending him just stood there, statements neutral. All of them clutched their

AK-47 rifles expectantly, as though they expected the deal to go bad. All of these soldiers were

wearing military garb, as though they had just left a military base in the middle of a training exercise.

Which, as a matter of fact, they had.

"The guns will come when your crates of eyes come," Captain Pyotr Andropov said in a thick

Russian accent, his voice harsh from lack of sleep. The man was reedy and tall, with gray edging on his

brown hair. His gray eyes were hard and unemotional, indicating that he had been though some trying

situations. "Being that both our nations' currencies are shaky at best, the terms of our deal were

bartering. Nothing I can do about it." He didn't take his eyes off the four goons who were with the

gangster. He didn't trust the American farther than he could throw an old SS-21 missile and that

wasn't very far. He kept his eyes on the motley mix of weapons the American gangsters had. All of

them had pistols on their belts and two carried big shotguns. One had an M-16 rifle, while the other

carried an old hunting rifle. In a fight, the Russian had no real idea who would win. The gangsters had

no uniforms, only a motley mix of street clothes. Jacobson wore a three-piece suit, which marked him

as someone important.

"Well, you can just take your terms of the deal and stuff them! You know how difficult it is to get

these crates of chilled eyes around with all the sector patrols?"

"The General wants the deal concluded properly. If the President discovers that one of his top

generals is trading weaponry for human organs, heads will roll. Now, could you hurry? I'm sure that

some other American goon will supply these eyes. There have been four nuke wars since the Pulse and

all these people who had badly flash-burned retinas that couldn't be fixed may want to see again. I

heard the Prime Minister of Israel wants a few hundred pairs for the survivors of the Iraqi attack on

Tel-Aviv and he's willing to pay gold for them. Supply and demand."

Meanwhile, four Seattle police stood guard outside the terminal, watching for any intruders.

Jacobson and his Russian guest had paid them well to make sure that nobody saw the deal that was in

progress. If anyone did see, well, the Russian had made sure that the police had ample power to take

care of any spectators. Two of the corrupt policemen carried AK-47s with banana clips, one was

armed with a modern AKR-II machine gun, and the fourth carried an Uzi. The safeties were all off.

"Hey Bill," one of them said. "How long do we stay here?"

"As long as necessary to conclude the deal, Vincent," the one named Bill said. "Then, we can go

home and get some sleep. We do have some incentive to make sure this goes smoothly. We get to

keep these nifty guns and we get fifteen pieces of gold apiece."

"Gold," the man with the Uzi said. "With greenbacks unreliable as they are these days, gold is a

rock of stability in a troubled world."

"Oh, cut the philosophical shit, Steve," Vincent said. "We're hired muscle these days. If the

police department paid us more, it would be different, but 'coulda, woulda, shoulda', and all that."

The police officers were so immersed in their conversation over their ill-gotten gains that they

didn't notice the dark figure slink down from an overhang mere yards behind them. Once the new

arrival had dropped down, she stalked soundlessly behind them, coming up behind them.

Vincent continued talking. "The country's in the can these days. Food riots in the east, excessive

bureaucrats all over, lack of good equipment in our own department; oy vey, if I get my hands on the

guys who set off the Pulse, they'll curse the day they were born."

Vincent was so busy talking he didn't notice the new arrival until she reached out and snapped

his neck. In another lightning-fast move, she spun around, kicking one guy in the throat and bruising his

larynx. He fell to the ground, gasping for breath. The woman then smacked one of them on the chin,

knocking him out. The last cop raised his rifle to deal with the new threat, only to be kicked in the

groin, relieved of his weapon, and tossed through a window into the empty night. Once the chaos was

over, the woman turned around to see the throat-kicked one looking up, massaging his neck. She

obviously hadn't kicked him as hard as she thought.

"What the hell was that?" he said in thin, pained voice, gasping again as a spasm of pain hit him.

"Who are you, lady?"

"Your worst nightmare," Max said, half-smiling. Then, she kicked him in the face. He went out

cold. Max then looked around at the various firearms lying on the ground. She snorted and tossed her

hair contemptuously. She never liked guns and in this case, they seemed to get in the way. She kicked

an AKR-II rifle in the stock, sending it spinning across the terminal. She then walked haughtily down

the way towards the arms deal.

Back where the deal was being made, the mobster and the Russian heard the gunfire.

Immediately, they all had weapons in their hands. The American gangster roared at the corrupt Russian

officer.

"Captain, is this some kind of setup?" Jacobson screamed. "Nobody's expected this late and

those soldiers were only there to reassure your boss!"

"Apparently, they weren't just a precaution," the Russian said coldly, his eyes full of calculation.

"Someone's here with us, someone with a homicidal intent. One of your toadies was supposed to

come back here and give a situation report in the event of an intruder. Since no one's come back, I

suspect all four have died or been incapacitated."

A mobile luggage cart sudden appeared from near the entrance of the terminal, moving slowly

under its own power. Nobody was guiding it or riding it. Still, the Russian was suspicious.

"Fire on it!" he snapped in Russian to his men. "Shred it!" He drew his automatic sidearm and

aimed at the slowly advancing luggage cart.

The four men and their officer began shooting at the moving luggage cart. The roar from the guns

thundered through the terminal as the ammunition sprayed through the air and tore into the luggage cart.

The cushioning and outer layers of padding were torn to pieces by the steel-jacketed ammunition,

which ricocheted from the steel frame, leaving dents.

After a moment of sustained fire, the Russian troops ran out of ammunition. Cursing in their native

tongue, the men removed clips from the pockets of their combat uniforms and rammed them into their

rifles. The luggage cart, though damaged, continued to move forward. Captain Andropov turned to the

gangster.

"I don't know what kind of scam you're pulling, Mr. Jacobson, but I suggest you do something.

Fire!"

One of his men raised his shotgun and fired. The pellets tore through the remnants of the cushion

and ricocheted into a nearby chair, leaving many small holes. Still, the cart continued to move forward.

The cart was now forty feet away from the assembled group of criminals.

"I don't see why we should waste any more expensive ammunition on this thing," Jacobson said.

"The thing seems harmless, even if its appearance is a little odd." The cart was now thirty feet from the

group.

"Think again," Max said and leaped in the air, revealing that she had been hunching on the rear of

the cart where the silhouette blocked their field of vision and firearms. She did a quick flip about ten

feet off the group and landed among them in a flurry of martial arts moves and small jumps.

Within a few seconds, all but two of the men were down. One of the American mobsters had

managed to step away from Max as she landed and was now staring in shock at the fact that she had

managed to incapacitate several trained killers in a few seconds. Captain Andropov, more experienced

than the enforcer, had assumed a fighting stance and was waiting for Max to make her move.

"Greetings, Madam. What brings you to our little deal?" the Russian asked with cold formality. "I

assume that you are opposed to our exchange?"

"As a matter of fact, Comrade, I am," Max said. Faster than a man could blink, she threw a

punch at the Russian officer's face. The man blocked, barely. However, he was unprepared for what

happened next. A follow up strike hit him on the chin and knocked him out cold. Then, Max turned to

the remaining man.

"Hello there," she said. "Wanna dance?"

The man screamed and turned, running away was fast as possible. His M-16, which made him

the most well armed one in the group, was forgotten. Max pouted slightly. "Too bad." Something

creaked in the terminal and two men carrying small coolers and heavy pistols turned around the corner,

eyes watchful.

Knowing that she didn't have much time, Max snatched up an AK-47 and aimed carefully. Then,

slowly and methodically, she squeezed the trigger. The two men had dropped their coolers and raised

their pistols, but they were too slow. Both of them went down, shot cleanly between the eyes.

Max looked intently at the cooler. "Now what was it that Logan wanted? Ah yes, the coolers."

She put the rifle down and walked toward the two fallen men.

Max's Apartment, 7:20 AM

"Man," Kendra said, her fatigue evident in her voice. "Where have you been all night?" The

blonde learned against Max's motorcycle, dark circles under her eyes. Max leaned on a counter,

drinking a glass of orange juice and looking as chipper as ever. If her appearance was an accurate

indicator, she'd been up half the night.

"Personal business," Max said, finishing the glass of orange juice. "Not very important. Now,

what have you done while I've been gone all evening?" She smiled slightly. "Probably having fun, no

doubt."

"Just hung around a bit. Sketchy tried his bicycle-on-the-bar routine again, to very smashing

results. Everyone thought he was a scream. Original Cindy tried to get a date again, with typically

unsuccessful results. Why doesn't she just give up?"

"Oh well," Max said. "I've got to go to work." She put the glass on the counter and walked

away.

Jam Pony X-Press, 8:00 AM

"I say den, de man by de corner ain't righteous. Little boys go in and dey don't come out,"

Herbal Thought said in his Caribbean accent. "I'll bet he eats dem. De Most High don't appreciate

cannibalism."

"Whatever Herbal," Normal, the overbearing supervisor of Jam Pony X-Press, said in his

irritating voice. "Just deliver these packages today. Six dollars C.O.D. The address is on the labels."

He shoved three legal pad-sized boxes in his direction.

"Whoa man. Dese packages contain the unrighteous traffic again? Remember what I said about

de Most High takin' de messenger into account?"

"I took you off the porn delivery, Herbal. Don't push it. I think these are some magazines for a

local library. Nothing unrighteous going on here."

"Ah, dank you Normal." Herbal Thought swaggered away with the boxes under his arm. As

soon as he strolled out the door, Max strolled in. Normal looked up to see her enter.

"Ah Max, your timing is perfect. I'd like you to take this envelope to the small community that's

sprung up near the Point Defiance Zoo. It's for a guy named Jumpin' Jay Wilbur. Apparently it's from

his mother in Baltimore, probably asking for money or something. It took awhile to get here, judging

from the postmark."

"Sure Normal," Max said nonchalantly, reaching out and taking the envelope.

"And make sure that you don't do anything stupid in traffic. A police hover drone caught

Sketchy here in some reckless driving and the cops hung around here for awhile asking questions and

making trouble. We don't need excessive official scrutiny."

"But Normal, I was trying to avoid hitting an old lady on the sidewalk!" Sketchy protested.

"What's wrong with trying to be helpful?" He was standing towards the back of the opening into the

office, a small package under his arm. He had a banana peel on his shoulder and some mud on his

face.

"You avoided hitting an old lady by making a thirty-degree turn into oncoming traffic and causing

a small accident in the process, dodging two cops, then flipped yourself and your bike over a median

into a Dumpster? Now that is hard to believe." Normal glared at Sketchy. "That's the last time I have

you make a delivery in that part of the city. Now clean yourself up a bit and deliver that package! We

have a reputation to uphold, you know."

"Sure, sure," Sketchy said meekly.

Normal then turned to Max. "Don't just stand there, get moving!"

"I was just getting started," Max said, beginning to walk towards her bike. Original Cindy wasn't

there this morning, so there was no extraneous conversation to be had. She had mounted her bike and

was beginning to pedal away from the rack when the cable news that seemed to be perpetually on

changed to the piratical broadcasts of Eyes Only. The neutral voice began its usual "Eyes Only cannot

be bought or threatened" routine before launching into the underground news of today. She stopped to

see if Logan was going to broadcast her little exploit to the good people of Seattle."

"If anyone hasn't noticed the unusual amount of police activity around the usually-quiet

Seattle-Tacoma Airport this morning, it was due to a sudden disagreement amongst local Mafia goons

and a squad of Russian soldiers who apparently flew in from military bases near Vladivostok. These

two unsavory groups were apparently trading eyes for Russian firearms, eyes that had been stolen from

patients who were told they had eye cancer and sometimes begged corrupt doctors to take their eyes

out. The eyes have been recovered, fortunately, and are being returned to the hospitals. Steps have

been taken to return the eyes to their original owners, so this crisis has been averted. Eyes Only

exhorts all of you to take a more active interest in what goes on here in our fair city so further atrocities

such as this do not occur." The news-feed broke off and the normal programming returned.

"Do this on your own time," Normal barked. "We have a business to run. Max," he said, eyeing

her, "get a move on please."

Max sighed and began to pedal out towards the entrance of Jam Pony X-Press, making her

morning delivery. She made a mental note to ask Sketchy about his latest bicycle-on-the-bar routine.

However, there was more pressing business, such as making this delivery.

Outskirts of the City, 8:45 AM

A dark-clad figure emerged from a copse of trees alongside one of the large highways that led to

and from Seattle. The figure climbed up onto the edge of the highway and began walking along

towards the huge checkpoint/tollbooth that marked the entrance to the city proper. The man was a tall

Caucasian with red hair that was short on the sides and slightly longer in the back and cold turquoise

eyes. Some freckles decorated the bridge of his nose, giving him a boyish look. The side of his face

was marked with a long scar that stretched from the corner of his eye down to where his lower jaw

met his neck. He was still young, probably around twenty, but his eyes looked a lot older. He wore a

long black trench coat that reached his ankles, hiking boots, dark blue jeans, and a black button-down

shirt. His coat billowed behind him as he walked down the highway towards the checkpoint.

The checkpoint was composed of two armored tollbooths on opposite sides of the highway. The

checkpoints had Plexiglas windows, one of which was open. A long gate extended from one to the

other. Only one of the two tollbooths was manned at this time; this one by two guards. One was armed

with an M-16, the other with an Uzi carbine.

"Whoa there," one of the guards said, holding up his hand in the "stop" gesture as the new figure

got close. "I'm going to need to see some ID before I let you into this city." The dark-clad figure

continued to walk towards the checkpoint without stopping. He looked straight ahead, ignoring the

guards.

"I warn you, mister, stop. The law states that only those with a valid ID and travel permits can

travel between major cities. It's been that way since the Pulse, with the martial law declaration."

"I lived under martial law much of my life, soldier boy," the dark man said. "And I don't much

relish it." His voice was clear and hard, unemotional.

"Whether you relish it or not, the law's the law," the other guard said. "So show us some ID or

show us your tail. Just don't waste our time."

"Whatever." The dark-clad figure continued to advance, ignoring their warnings. One of the

soldiers raised his machine gun. The other kept his Uzi in his hand, but didn't raise it. He was new at

being a sector cop and he didn't want to kill anyone.

"This is your last chance, mister. Comply or die." The dark man continued to advance and the

man with the M-16 opened fire. The bullets slammed into the mysterious figure, who groaned in pain

and was pushed back slightly. He continued to hold the trigger down so the rifle went on firing at full

automatic. The man knelt on one knee as the bullets continued to slam into his chest and stomach. His

neck was bent and he was looking at the ground. Eventually, the guard stopped firing and lowered his

rifle. He stared at the mysterious man, who continued to kneel before the booth. Blood dripped from

multiple wounds on the man's body, but the flow was beginning to abate. The man looked up, murder

in his eyes. He had a gun, but he didn't want to use it. He was interested in getting to something inside

the guard booth as well as retaliating for his wounds and he could do both without wasting ammo.

"What the hell!" the guard screamed. "I just unloaded a full clip into you and you're still alive!"

The man rose to his feet, his eyes still blazing.

"I'm just full of surprises," the newcomer said, his voice low and full of malice. Then, he jumped

up onto the roof of the guardhouse, a distance of around fifty feet, in single bound. "Holy smoke," the

rookie guard said when he saw the move, eyes wide. Once upon the roof, he opened a hatch that led

down into the guardhouse, maneuvered himself over it, and dropped inside.

The two guards spun around to face the intruder when he dropped among them. However, he

was too fast. With two strikes, one to the stomach and the other to temple, the new arrival floored the

guard who had unloaded a full M-16 clip into him. The man then checked the floored guard to discern

his condition. The new guard was in shock. The dark-clad man stood up to his full height, which was at

least a high higher than the guard, and looked down on him.

"Sorry to say, but your partner's an asshole. Now, do you have any food here in this guard hut?

Your life may depend on it."

"Y-yes, there is food. F-four g-granola bars and two apples under this d-desk." The dark man

turned and reached under the counter, withdrawing the food. Within the space of a few seconds, he

had unwrapped the granola bars and devoured them messily. The new guard watched in amazement at

how ravenously the man ate. When he was done, he set the two apples on the counter.

"You can keep these." The man stepped under the hatchway and leaped up in a single vertical

leap that took him to the roof. The sound of his second leap, from the roof to the highway on the other

side of the checkpoint, was faintly here. The guard walked to the window and stuck his head out,

looking around to see the figure depart. The man's walk was as strong and sure as it was when he first

arrived, despite the fact that he had absorbed at least twenty rounds of military-grade ammunition. As

the man walked away, the guard saw some things falling away from him, as though his body was

expelling the bullets. The guard watched the man until he could no longer be seen. Then, the beaten

guard groaned, showing that he was still alive.

Jam Pony X-Press, 9:00 AM

"Back already, Max?" Normal asked in his irritating voice. "Good. I've got another delivery for

you to take. It's to a rich guy named Logan Cale; apparently it's a letter or something from Canada.

It's fifteen bucks, cash on delivery."

"Logan?" Max said, surprised. She didn't know about any friends or relatives Logan had in

Canada, but then, she didn't know too much about the man.

"Yes, him. Here's the box." With what Max thought was too little care for a C.O.D. item, the

supervisor flipped the envelope from his booth to Max. She caught it easily and turned around on her

bike, heading back towards the door. As she pedaled out, she passed by Herbal Thought, who was

complaining about something.

"Dese sector cops, dey ain't righteous neither. Dey start taking tolls from messengers, lookin' to

make easy money! Whad is it dat de Book sez, somesing about corruption bein' bad. De Most High

don't like dis one bit!"

"Yes, the Most High doesn't. It means the Most High is going to have to supply his messengers

with money to keep the traffic flowing smoothly."

"Whadever, man. You dink you're de Most High, but you're not."

"Whatever yourself, Herbal. Now I've got another package for you to deliver."

Max sighed and pedaled away from the heated discussion between Herbal and Normal. With

Herbal's religious fervor and Normal's flippant attitude toward anything that he thought didn't directly

concern him, the two of them were like oil and water.

Streets of Seattle, 9:05 AM

Max pedaled down the street past the sector cop she had just shown her ID to. This was one of

the nice ones; he even smiled and wished her a good day. Not at all like one of the nasty ones Herbal

ran into. As she rode along, she saw something out of the corner of her eye. A man in dark garb was

walking down a sidewalk, hands in pockets. He wore a long black coat, boots, jeans, and a black

button-down shirt. What was odd about him was the fact that the shirt was full of dozens of bullet holes

and the face, the face

February 2009, the night of the escape. Max and the eleven others ran through the

freezing night, Zack in the lead. The roar of the snowmobiles could be heard in the distance,

along with shouting men. The distant siren of the alarm echoed in the night. Zack made a series

of gestures, which told the group to disperse. Then

Max shook her head. Something about that man reminded her of that night ten years in the past.

She looked again, but the man was gone. She shook her head. Her thoughts dwelling on the dark man,

she pedaled along towards Logan's residence.

Logan's Residence, 9:22 AM

"Morning Max," Logan said cheerfully as he wheeled himself back from the door. "What brings

you here today? I thought that you had work?"

"This is work, Logan," Max said, drawing the letter out from her jacket. "Someone from Canada

sent you a letter. Fifteen dollars C.O.D., apparently."

"For a letter?" Logan asked, surprised. He shrugged and withdrew his wallet from his pocket.

He removed a ten and five and handed them to her. She handed him the letter, which he opened. The

paper was manila in color with something paper-clipped to the bottom. He looked at the letter and

narrowed his eyes. As he scanned down the page, his eyes grew narrowed and his gaze became as

stone. He removed the paper-clipped object and placed it in his pocket.

"Well, what is it?" Max said, curious.

"Some information," Logan said. "Max, are you busy tonight?"

"Why?"

"I'd like you to pay a visit to a certain Dr. Ronald Wallace. He lives in a large mansion just

outside of town. Do you know what house I'm talking about?"

"Yes, the one where that cult that chopped up little babies used to operate before they were

busted. Nobody would buy the house except this mysterious Dr. Wallace. Why do you want me to go

over there tonight?"

"This letter states that Dr. Wallace is involved in a massive pyramid scheme similar to the one

that collapsed the Albanian economy in the late 20th Century. If it's true and he pulls some scam, the

economy of the Northwest is likely to go even lower than it is now. I'd like you to go there and

reconnoiter a bit, then report back anything of consequence to me."

"Albania? Unlucky country. First they get stuck with a nasty Communist dictatorship after the

Second World War, then their economy collapses and this whole Balkan War where they end up

losing their independence and being a prize for Greater Greece and Montenegro."

"Some guy pulled a pyramid scheme there in the late 90s and bankrupted virtually everyone in

the country. If that hadn't happened, their country wouldn't have fallen into anarchy that ruined much of

their infrastructure and left them wide open to quasi-fascist dictators who got them into nuclear wars on

the wrong side. If this happens right here in Seattle, all hell could break loose. Be prepared, this Dr.

Wallace has a lot of security."

"Thanks. And before I go, anything on Manticore?"

"Not much, Max. I do know that the commander of the SAC base, a man named Lydecker,

was reprimanded for what went on in the escape and was assigned to track down the escapees.

Apparently this guy is in charge of the search for you and the others."

"I know about Lydecker," Max said. "Evil bastard."

"I agree, from what I hear about this guy. Had a short conversation with a person that I now

know was him a few weeks ago."

"What?" Max asked, surprised and slightly scared. If Lydecker was getting closer, life could

become significantly worse.

"I cracked into the radio frequencies used by the troops hunting you and your friend on Sedro

Island and jammed up one of their groups, then impersonated them. Lydecker caught on when he

rendezvoused with the group that I claimed had captured you and found out their signal had been

hijacked. He says 'who are you?' in this really ominous voice and I shut it off. Man, not a guy to mess

with."

"I know."

"Anything else?"

"No, and I have to go now. I'll see this Dr. Wallace some time tonight."

Max turned around and headed out.

Dr. Wallace's Residence, 10:00 AM

Dr. Ronald Wallace lived in an old Colonial-style house just outside of Seattle proper. It was

three stories, constructed out of brick, and had a front porch with white Doric columns made out of

marble. A ten-foot wall topped with razor wire, a relic of the days when the Children of Armageddon

cult owned it and wanted no one to discover their nocturnal blood rituals, surrounded it. A wrought

iron gate marked the opening in the wall, a gate guarded by two large ex-military types and a

vicious-looking Rottweiler.

The dark-clad man arrived at the gate holding a newspaper clipping in his hand. He eyed the

guards with military precision, taking note of their armor, weapons, and the dog.

"I'm here for a job interview," the man said simply. "This clipping says that your boss needs a

security consultant."

"We've been waiting for some time for an applicant," one of the guards, a large man with

steel-gray hair and a goatee said. "Nobody wants to come near here because of that cult business a

few years back. You got guts, kid."

The man narrowed his eyes. "Yes, I do." The guard smiled slightly and turned to a keypad in the

wall. He entered a code and the wrought-iron gate swung open. The dark-clad man stepped inside, his

coat billowing behind him.

Dr. Wallace's Study, 10:10 AM

"Just how old are you, Mr?" Dr. Wallace asked. The man was in his late 50s and was wiry.

He had a shock of white hair and a clear face. His eyes, however, were cold and dead, the mark of a

man with no conscience. His hands were long and graceful and had several small scars on them; scars

that resembled those made by a scalpel.

"I'm nineteen, sir. And my name is not important; I can take my pay in cash." The man eyed the

doctor, appraising him. The man had the look of one who ordered people killed without a thought, but

could not do it himself. The "cowardly commander type". Gutless fool, the dark-clad man thought. If I

didn't need the money, I'd slice this guy open like a fish and toss his remains in Puget Sound and be

done with it.

"Nineteen? You're a little young."

"Aye. However, I've trained with various militia groups in weapons handling and security

business, I've fought bandits in forty separate engagements over the past three years, and I've been

certified by the Red Cross for all sorts of things. To top it off, I used to live in Cincinnati." When he

referred to bandits, he was referring to the armed gangs of criminals, looters, and rebels that had

formed within hours of the Pulse and gripped America in a paroxysm of banditry and violence for years

before the government could destroy the bulk of them. The militias were the National Guard and

"patriot" units that fought the armies of criminals and violent opportunists before the federal government

recovered enough to gain the upper hand.

"Ah," the doctor said. "Wasn't that city torn by riot and violence within a day of the Pulse, a

tumult that didn't calm down for nearly four years? Didn't this orgy of death wipe out 23% of the city's

population and send over a million packing as refugees?"

"Yes, Doctor. When I was ten, I had to kill a man. Afterwards, I had to kill others before I could

get out of that living hell that the city had become. Kill or be killed, you know how it is." Much of the

story was made up; designed to impress the amoral character he was dealing with. The violence in

Cincinnati had been extremely unpleasant, but he wasn't really involved in it since he had taken up

residence in the suburbs. All he had seen personally were the helicopters of troops flying in and the

tanks moving along the roads. However, there were the news stories, which gave him some of the

source material for his patent lies.

"What weapons can you use, whoever you are? You said that some of these militias had trained

you in weapons handling," the doctor asked.

"I can kill with my bare hands if need be. I can use any type of small blade or garrote, along with

swords and club-style weapons. I can score a 100 out of 100 with various types of small arms. I can

use heavy weapons with easy and have been known to carry a heavy rocket launcher fifteen miles

without stopping for breath." That one was true; one of the exercises of his rather-abnormal childhood.

"Ah, this looks promising," the doctor said, smiling in an obviously fake way. The man wanted

his expertise but also saw him as a potential threat. The idea of the sword turned against its wielder did

not appeal to him one bit. "How much money do you want?"

"Not all that much. Room and board is part of the deal, am I correct?"

"Yes."

"Therefore, I'll only need a small amount; probably only $200 a week at most. Cash."

"And you're economical too! I am impressed!" The man's smiled broadened and even hints of

genuine emotion began to show. The dark-clad man was starting to feel a little sick.

"Now let me tell you something, young man. Just in case you start thinking you can mess with

me, I'd like you to know something. Do you know where these scars on my hands came from?"

"No, sir."

"Well, I was hired by the Turkish Army in the Balkan War. They had me conduct some

biological warfare tests on living prisoners. These scars came from those who resisted my efforts to

make incisions. Anesthetic was so expensive in those days immediately after the Pulse, so we didn't

give them any. Let me tell you, son, that I have killed all sorts of people in all sorts of ways and I don't

care anymore. I had a hand in the creation of the Black Friday virus that killed 1,400,000 Greek

civilians and I devised the hallucinogenic gas that caused whole armies to tear themselves apart in

chemically induced madness. You think you're bad; think again."

"Last I checked, Doctor, the Turks eventually lost the war. Greece has Ionia and all of Cyprus

now, along with other miscellaneous territory in the Balkans. In fact, they've renamed Istanbul

Constantinople, as it was before the Ottoman sultan got his talons into it. All your nifty chemical crap

didn't save Ankara from the nuclear strikes, did it?" The dark-clad man looked hard at the doctor. "I

was only ten at the time, but I saw the mushroom clouds. Ataturk's dream has died and the Greeks

have part of Asia Minor again. And the nation that hired you is now a nonentity at the mercy of the

Greeks and Ukrainians."

"Good," the doctor said, smiling again. "You have guts. Of course, I had and still have no real

loyalty to those fools who wanted to rebuild the old Ottoman Empire, but the vitriol in your voice

shows that you are no man to be pushed around."

"Thank you, sir."

"I think I'll hire you. You didn't bring any stuff with you; do you need any clothing?"

"Some. Do you need to know my size?"

"Not really, I have a guest closet full of generic clothing for any people in a wide range of sizes.

I'm sure you'll find something in there. It's next to the kitchen, first door on the left."

"I'll have it brought in by five this afternoon. You can sleep in the guestroom by the kitchen for

the time being. This building's armory is located in the basement; I expect you to have a decent

weapon of some kind with you at all times."

"I have this." The man drew an Uzi pistol from his coat. "Feel free to supply any weapons if

necessary, but I don't need to impose."

"Good. For starters, I'd like you to look around a bit and look for any obvious holes in the

security perimeter."

"I'll get right on it, sir," the dark-clad man said.

Perimeter of Dr. Wallace's Estate, 1:12 AM

Max skulked through the darkness, moving near-silently towards the low wall with its lethally

sharp barrier. She was wearing her tight cat-burglar suit as was her custom on such missions. A

searchlight plied its way through the darkness. Max dodged its beam easily, with years of long practice.

This Dr. Wallace was too cheap to invest in a good infrared system or motion sensor, Max observed.

It was going to cost him dearly. Her motorcycle stood by a small tree

Max looked up towards the wall. There was a small gap in the razor wire nearby, one that she

could leap through without any trouble. She knew that she could probably vault the wall at its tallest

point, but she wasn't going to risk serious injury or possible death on a little reconnaissance mission,

anyway. The roaring gunfire of the battle in Seattle-Tacoma Airport still rung in her ears and she didn't

wish to repeat it. The spotlight had just passed over it and wouldn't be on its return track for a minute

at least.

Silently, Max leaped over the fence, slicing perfectly through the gap. Nobody on the ground

seemed to notice her. She landed on her feet, making very little noise. She widened her pupils even

more than she already had, enhancing her night vision. She could now see as well in the dark as she

could in the day, giving her a major advantage over Dr. Wallace's security forces or any of Lydecker's

goons. She scanned through the dark, observing the good doctor's lawn.

The lawn was flat, with two small trees between her and the front door. Two men carrying

AK-47 rifles and wearing night vision goggles guarded the door. Max didn't intend to get through the

front door, but the night vision goggles increased the chance that these two people might see her. With

those weapons, that could be a bad thing, even though she had super-fast reflexes and was known to

dodge bullets. A classical statue of Zeus stood to the right of the front door, which gave her an idea. If

she could get to the statue, she could jump from it to the roof without being seen. Looking about

cautiously, she silently dashed to the statue.

Security Control Center, 1:15 AM

The dark-clad man watched several screens that made up the wall opposite him. Each of them

was linked to a camera that watched a different part of Dr. Wallace's sprawling grounds. None of

them were showing anything out of the ordinary, just guards and their dogs. The man's first night as

security chief was going well.

"You know, Dr. Wallace doesn't mind if his chief sleeps once in awhile," the techie who sat in a

chair in front of the screens said. The techie was a thin, pinched man with horn-rimmed glasses who

was dressed in an LA Lakers shirt with khaki cargo pants. A pack of cigarettes sat on his lap. "As long

as at least one person watches the monitors and can get the alarm out if need be, he doesn't care who

it is."

"I'm not tired tonight," the man said, brushing a strand of red hair from his forehead. His

analytical eyes looked over the screens some more, then focused on the statue of Zeus. Something

dark had moved up behind the statue and, in a flash, was on the head of the Greek king of the gods. In

the next second, it was gone.

For any normal man, the thing would have been a black blur but the dark-clad man was not

normal. His gaze had captured every movement the figure made and gave him a pretty good idea of

what it looked like.

It, or rather, she was about five and half feet tall and very slender. Possibly a size 3, he thought.

She had near-black hair and medium-shade skin, with full, pouting lips. She wore a dark, extremely

tight outfit. A brief movement of her hair had revealed something dark on the back of her neck. The

dark-clad man's curiosity was aroused and he scratched the back of his own neck pensively. This

looked like something for him to deal with, on his own.

"You can handle this for a moment," he said, smiling a bit. "I'm going to step out for a few

minutes."

"Anything you say, boss," the techie said obediently. A moment later, he lit a cigarette and put it

in his mouth. As he puffed contentedly, he kept an eye on the screens.

"Filthy habit," the dark man said as he left. "You'll end up puking your lungs out at any rate." The

security chief began whistling "Auld Lang Syne" as he left the room. As he left, his own pupils irised

(opened in a circular fashion) wider than normal. He had his suspicions about the intruder, and he

wanted to be prepared.

The Roof of the House, 1:18 AM

Max moved silently on the roof of the house, hiding behind any outcroppings she could get to.

No guards were on the roof, a major oversight, but she wanted to be prepared. A chimney was

nearby, a possible ingress point, but she didn't really want to have an unpleasant surprise waiting on the

bottom. A rich guy she robbed recently had a nasty bear trap installed in his fireplace, primed to snare

anyone who came dropping in for an unauthorized visit.

There. A small window, partly opened, was just in plain sight. This Dr. Wallace was extremely

careless, and Max was beginning to doubt how capable this man was of pulling any society-crashing

scams. Walking carefully over to the window, she pulled it all the way open in a quick motion and

slipped inside.

A Hallway of the House, 1:20 AM

The dark-clad man walked down the hallway, alert for any possible sound. Nobody used this

part of the house; it was totally empty and the rooms were gathering dust. Still, the windows of this part

of the building gave any would-be intruder many possible ingress points.

Suddenly, he heard a very faint sound. Not a very significant sound; it could be easily mistaken

for a house settling on its foundations. However, it sounded just like a footfall. A very faint footfall. It

was coming from about twelve feet down the hall, near a narrow stair that led into the attic. The man

stepped into a small enclave in the hallway and waited. He held his breath, waiting for the intruder, if

there was one, to make his or her first move.

Attic of the House, 1:21 AM

The attic was dusty and mostly empty; only a few wicker chairs and tables sat anywhere. Max

was more interested in the small stairway at the very end of the attic, one that promised a way down

into the inhabited regions of the house where she hoped to find some answers. Her ultra-keen hearing

picked up a few sounds here and there, mostly those of chirping crickets. However, she heard a faint

sound of a person walking, then stopping. She waited for the mysterious person to leave, but there was

no sound. Maybe he or she was somewhere else. She moved quickly towards the small stair.

A Hallway of the House, 1:23 AM

Max opened the door cautiously and looked down the hallway. It was empty and lit only by light

coming up from a stairway. She heard no sound at all, not even faint breathing. She gave a small sigh of

relief and started forward. At first, she walked slowly, but she began to move a bit faster. She wanted

to finish this little mission up quickly; something about the place unnerved her.

As she dashed down the hallway, a black arm sudden extended from a slight indentation in the

wall and caught her in the stomach. She gave a small cry of pain and bounced backward, flexing her

stomach muscles to avoid doubling over and giving the mysterious enemy access to her head. She

quickly assumed fighting stance, ready for the next move.

A man with red hair who wore a dark coat seemed to swing out of the enclave. His pupils were

abnormally wide, which would give him exceptional night vision. Max gasped. This was the man she

saw on the street that day, the one who reminded her of the escape from Manticore.

"Who are you?" the man said. "And what brings you here? Breaking and entering is a crime

punishable by five years of hard labor under martial law, you know. Plan on breaking rocks out on

some of the islands, or rebuilding buildings damaged in riots? Maybe cleaning up after a food riot

doesn't appeal to you, now does it? Especially if your supervisor is a man with a shotgun."

Max didn't bother to answer. Instead, she lashed out with a swing kick at preternaturally fast

speed. She expected the blow to smash the man in the temple and send him reeling. Instead, he caught

the foot effortlessly and flipped her onto her stomach. She pushed herself off the floor down the hall

with her foot, expecting him to try to pin her with his foot, but he didn't try.

"I saw the mark on your neck, from a distance," the dark-clad man said. "Manticore, is it? I

remember the project, a hush-hush operation going on at an old SAC base in Wyoming. Twelve kids

escaped from there three months before the Pulse."

"How do you know this?" Max asked, her breathing fast. One or two blows to the enemy could

easily resolve most of the fights she'd been in. This guy showed that he had equal reflexes and, judging

by his size, equal or greater muscular strength. This guy was something of a problem.

"I know it because" the dark-clad man said, smiling. He was continuing on when the explosion

hit.

Night turned to day inside the hallway and the house shook. The sound of shouting was heard

from outside, along with some heavy-duty firepower. The chatter of machine guns and the whirring of

helicopter blades roared outside. The noise distracted the dark man and Max made her move. She

threw herself at the dark man and sent him flying. The two of them tumbled down the hallway, locked

in the embrace of combat. Another massive explosion shook the building. The two came to a stop,

Max on top of the dark-clad man.

"Pity I'm winning," Max said. "You look kind of cute."

"I think I am," the man said, pushing up under her with a boot-clad foot. "But you're not

winning." He smiled and sent her crashing down the stairs. The dark-clad man came down after her,

drawing a pistol from his coat. Max seemed to have been knocked unconscious and the security chief

came down cautiously, keeping his pistol trained on her. She still appeared KO'd. He lowered his

weapon slightly. Then he noticed the Max's right eye was partially open.

She sprung up, delivering an open-palm strike to the dark-man's chin. The man blocked it, but

the blow hit him the shoulder and forced him back again.

Immediately, both of them were seized by flashbacks to a decade in the past.

Two children, one a boy with red hair and the other a girl with short black hair, sparred in

a room, observed by several military officers. The boy knocked the girl down and leaned over

her to administer the final blow. Suddenly, she rose up and struck him in the chin, sending him

toppling over. The military officers shook their heads at this

"Zack?" Max asked, surprised. She expected to find the one who sacrificed himself to save the

others in a prison or a small town somewhere, but to meet him in a fight while breaking into a guy's

house while a battle raged outside was something else entirely. While Zack seemed frozen, an odd

look in his turquoise eyes, Max got up. Suddenly, his eyes snapped into focus and recognition glinted.

"Max?" Zack asked, in shock. "Is it you?" He still seemed disbelieving, but he lowered the gun.

"I thought you died when you went under the ice. At least that's what Lawrence believed and I didn't

get out until a bit later, so I couldn't check."

The house shook again and a cloud of plaster dust billowed down the hall above them. A cloud

of smoke smelling of burning wood and burning flesh billowed down behind it. Whatever was going on

outside apparently was heating up.

"I suggest we renew acquaintances later," Max said. "Right now, I suggest we get out of here."

The two of them dashed down the hallway towards the nearest exit.

Outside the House, 1:25 AM

Outside the house, a battle was raging. Two Cobra helicopters hovered in the air above the

palatial estate, while two Humm-Vees parked themselves between the wall and the house, spitting fire

and lead at the few surviving guards of the estate. The lack of cover between the house and the wall

had been the death of the small army Dr. Wallace hired to guard him; without anywhere to hide from

the murderous gunfire, most of them had been slaughtered. The vehicles and soldiers marked with the

colors of the US Army were winning the battle, seemingly without casualties.

Max and Zack leaped out the front door to see the chaos outside. Zack narrowed his eyes and

scanned the vehicular forces that were pulverizing the guards, his artificially widened pupils taking in all

detail. He nodded his approval as he watched a mini-gun built into a Humm-Vee perforates two

guards. Max eyed Zack oddly as he nodded.

"I thought you worked for this guy," Max said. "Why do you approve of the slaughter of his

guards?"

"Max, Dr. Wallace was involved in the Turkish chemical-biological weapons program of the

Balkan War. He personally invented the hallucinogenic gas first used at the Battle of Constantinople

and the infamous Black Friday virus used in SCUD attacks on Athens that killed over a million people.

To top it off, he did nasty surgical experiments on POWs without anaesthetic. The stuff he cooked up

may have had a hand in the Balkan War syndrome."

"The disease Theo died of," Max said, her eyes wide and her statement grief-stricken. Her lower

lip stuck out a bit, making her appear to be pouting.

"Who's Theo?" Zack asked, puzzled. "Your significant other?"

"No," Max said with sudden venom. "He was a friend and he died because some greedy fat cat

was smuggling the medicine into Canada and switching it with sugar pills."

"Whoa," Zack said. "No need to get mad here. I just arrived this morning."

"Look at this!" someone from the forces attacking the mansion shouted. "We missed someone!"

Zack's ultra-sensitive hearing picked it up beforehand, along with the sound of a heavy machine gun

being turned in their general direction. Out of the corner of his eye, Zack saw the gunner on a

Humm-Vee aimed his heavy machine gun at them.

"What was that?" Max asked, giving evidence that she'd heard the people in the combat group.

However, she apparently didn't understand that the gun was being pointed at them.

"Down!" Zack shouted, pushing Max to the ground. As he was throwing Max out of harm's

way, a gunner from the force opened fire. Zack's body jerked with every impact as dozens of mini-gun

rounds slammed into him. With blood pouring from his multitudinous wounds, Zack collapsed to the

ground next to Max.

"Oh no," Max gasped. She had spent months looking for him and to find him, only to have him

die within five minutes of meeting him was just too much. "God, please," she begged the heavenly

power she had only a vague belief in. "Don't let him die."

Suddenly, Zack was up again, murder in his eyes. His clothes were shredded by the extreme

quantities of ammunition he had absorbed, but he still seemed vital and very, very angry.

"Thanks," Max whispered quietly. Zack drew an Uzi pistol from his coat and aimed it at the man

who had fired on him. The gunner was in shock from seeing a man absorb enough lead to kill four men

and then rise up, ready to deal some major death. Zack squeezed the trigger exactly twice, hitting the

man in the chest and throat. The soldier went down, dead.

Zack suddenly snapped his fingers. "Wait here," he told Max. "I'll be right back." He turned and

jumped toward the front door, his hole-punched coat billowing behind him.

"Zack!" Max shouted, reaching out. Crazy boy, Max thought, rushing back into a war zone.

Already several surviving guards had fled into the building and small detachments of troops were

moving up to secure the area. "I hope he gets out alive," Max said quietly, keeping her eye on the

troops moving in from the wall. Lydecker and his goon squads could be anywhere and she wasn't

interested in being anyone's lab rat.

Gunfire echoed inside the building, single-shot bursts from pistols and the long snarl of an Uzi at

full automatic. Then, silence inside. A squad of soldiers moved into the building, guns at ready. Max

waited; hoping that Zack hadn't gotten himself killed in the process. Still, she told herself, she had

survived the experience and that was important.

Something black leaped out a nearby window and tumbled in the air. Zack landed on his feet in

front of her, some pockets in his pants and coat bulging.

"I figured I'd help myself to some enemy contraband before I left. Two thousand dollars in cash,

some gold coins and jewelry, and some small antiques. That should be a nifty nest egg."

"Remember what they said about keeping moving in enemy territory?" Max asked. "I suggest we

keep moving."

"Right," Zack said. Max noticed that he looked thinner and a little less impressive since after the

incident where he was shot multiple times. It was as though he had shrunk somehow. He took off

running and Max came up behind. The two easily leaped the wall and sprinted to Max's motorcycle.

Max climbed onto the bike, while Zack hung back a bit.

"How about you drive," Zack suggested. "I don't know how to maneuver these things."

"My pleasure," Max said, putting her visor on. "Now why don't you climb on and be sure not to

fall off. This thing can go pretty fast." Zack shrugged and climbed onto the motorcycle, reaching around

her to get a grip on some outcroppings on the bike's body. As soon as it looked like Zack had gotten

a good grip, Max gunned the motor and sent them flying away from the embattled estate as fast as the

bike could go.

Max's Apartment, 2:00 AM

Max and Zack arrived back Max's apartment a little over 30 minutes later. Max wheeled the

bike in, Zack trailing behind. This was unknown territory to him and his eyes gathered every detail.

They heard laughter inside and Zack's ears perked up. Unknown presence, he thought, must be alert.

"Zack, don't worry," Max said. "It's just my roommate Kendra and one of her friends." She

stepped forward a bit and looked around the counter.

It was Kendra all right, and Sketchy, both of them sitting on the ground over a depleted six-pack

of Molson Ice and both a bit loopy. Max smiled a bit. Just a couple young folks getting drunk; not a

particularly uncommon phenomenon on the Seattle night scene.

Zack had stepped up behind her and when he saw the beer, something came over him. He began

shaking, his eyes locked onto the bottles, and he leaped forward suddenly.

Sketchy turned around, laughing, when he heard Zack leap. He thought it was Max, coming to

join in their beer-y revelry. Instead, he was greeted by a huge figure in dark garb leaping at him, his

long coat billowing behind. He nearly jumped through the ceiling when he saw Zack coming at him;

only Zack wasn't interested in Sketchy.

In mid-flight, Zack snatched up one of the bottles and opened it. Then, he began drinking while

sailing in midair. The bottle was half-empty by the time he impacted the wall. Still, he kept a tight grip

as he finished the alcoholic content, ignoring the fact that his legs were up in the air and his head was on

the ground and he was beginning to tilt over. Once he was finished, he tossed the bottle aside and

flipped up onto his feet.

Max watched in amazement at what Zack had just done. She knew that all the children of

Manticore were capable of abnormal physical feats; the night of the escape, she saw the nine year-old

Zack defeat several elite soldiers in physical combat. What was amazing is that he was that desperate

for alcohol. She knew that their DNA had been designed to prevent physical addiction to any

substances.

"Zack?" Max asked. "Are you an alcoholic?"

"No," Zack said. Already he looked less pinched and more the presence he was when the two

first met. "It's a long story."

"Hey Max," Kendra asked. Even though a huge stranger had come crashing through their midst,

she didn't seem perturbed. "Is this your new boyfriend or something?"

"Zack," Max said. "How about you introduce yourself?" Then, she looked, half-smiling, at

Sketchy. Sketchy was huddling in the corner in a fetal position, trembling, his eyes locked on Zack. It

appeared quite comical, but Sketchy looked scared to death. "Relax, Sketchy, he's not dangerous. I

know him."

"Whowho is he?" Sketchy asked, still keeping his eye on the stranger. Zack looked at

Sketchy with an eyebrow cocked.

"Sketchy? Now that is an interesting name. Where'd you come up with that?"

"Introductions first," Max said firmly.

"Oh. I'm Zack and I don't have a last name."

"Like Max," Kendra said. Although Max never told Kendra specific details about Manticore and

nothing at all about the eleven other escapees, she could sense a vague connection between the two.

"I'm Kendra."

"Evening," Zack said, smiling a bit. It was one of the fist times Zack had displayed any emotion

other than rage. It was refreshing and showed that apparently he had developed a human personality,

separate from the trained killer that Manticore wanted him to be.

"Now Sketchy," Kendra said. "Why don't you get out of the fetal position and be sociable."

"O-okay," Sketchy said, slowly uncurling himself. A few moments later, he climbed to his feet.

Still, he kept his distance from Zack. Something about the new arrival was scary.

"My, your buddy's very friendly," Zack said to Kendra. "He's still scared to death."

"You know, most people don't appreciate huge guys in trench coats crashing into their drinking

games and stealing their drinks. It's rather understandable," Max cut in. She eyed Zack and Kendra

with an appraising glance. Max half-expected Zack to be interested in her, but apparently he was

bestowing all his attention on Kendra. Hmmm.

"So," Zack said, turning away from Kendra to face Max. "What's it like up in the great white

north? I've spent most of my time since we last met in the Midwest, going from place to place."

"Oh, I've spent most of my time here as a bicycle messenger. Ever since the Pulse, the US Mail

hasn't been too reliable so people hire private messenger services to deliver stuff. I work at Jam Pony

X-Press, which is a bit far from here."

"The boss is a jerk," Kendra added.

"He's quite a piece of work," Max said. "But there's good in there somewhere. Still, the money

is fairly easy and the job isn't too difficult. What have you been doing to survive in these rather

unpleasant times?"

Zack narrowed his eyes. "Ever since the Pulse, I've been involved in warfare of some kind or

another. Immediately after the Pulse, I had to fight just to survive. Since I was around 16, I fought as a

mercenary for the National Guard or various "patriot militias," fighting the bandits, looters, and

terrorists who crawled out of their holes after the Pulse. I was involved in forty separate engagements

with various enemies, most of whom got utterly annihilated in the first battle. I was involved in the siege

of the Army of God fortress in the Smoky Mountains soon after they ambushed an arms convoy out of

Savannah and got hold of some military hardware. I also commanded a squad of Reynolds'

Bushwhackers when we fought the Milwaukee Red Army in the Battle of Naperville. Little jerks got

overextended when they moved into Illinois and we easily squished them. I also was involved in the

Battle of Texarkana, where the Texas National Guard annihilated the Gangster Disciples, who were

going on a little statewide looting spree. If I ever bothered, I'd have quite a trophy collection by now.

Instead, I've satisfied myself with the spoils of war, keeping little of it for myself and selling most of it.

Not a pleasant existence, but it's better than dying."

"Nice," Sketchy said, fear creeping into his voice. "It turns out that we're playing host to a damn

mercenary. Just for the record, I don't have any valuables on me."

"Relax," Zack said. "You aren't a bandit, terrorist, or other such thing. No need to fear."

"Like that's reassuring," Kendra said. The revelation of Zack's occupation for the past three

years seemed to distance her from him, make her almost afraid of him. Zack shrugged a bit.

Suddenly, bullets covered in dried blood began dropping from under Zack's coat. Clunk, clunk,

clunk they went as they hit the floor. Fourteen of the heavy-caliber bullets landed on the floor of the

apartment, all of them deformed from impact. Kendra, Max, and Sketchy all looked at Zack, who

shrugged again. "What was that?" Max asked.

"Don't ask," Zack said modestly. "Now what to do? It's two in the morning and apparently

none of us are tired."

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