Rusty didn't have time for all the apologies; he was up on his feet and running to the monitors, sword in hand. He used it to point to the corridor running west. "Pete, take Hank and get all these ladies into Brain Central! Lockdown drill! Lockdown drill!"
Brain Central was the vault-like computer room not far behind him and one office to the west. It had walls like a battleship, a secure air supply, and its own power generator. It was a safe bet none of those oh-so-haughty managers had ever used such a primitive chemical toilet before, but… it beat having their throats sliced open or a sword thrust through their lovely midriffs, that was for sure.
Sollars was staring at him. "Lockdown? Brain Central?"
"Yes!" Randy roared into Pete's face. "Move!"
A frightened hubbub was rising, behind him-and amid it he could hear the President's unmistakable spluttering. Hank, at least, must be following Lockdown procedures as fast as he could.
He turned, seeing the tall custodian shooing well-dressed women ahead of him like a farmer herding chickens. "Hank?" he called. "Leave me the axe. Get another from the station inside there."
Hank turned his head and nodded, grinning apologetically. He leaned the axe carefully against the wall, then started moving toward the west corridor, spreading his arms wide and murmuring, "Let's go, people. Let's go."
He was sweeping the women-and a few bewildered-looking men in shirtsleeves and bedraggled ties, too, the angrily bewildered President of Holdoncorp among them, his golf putter still clutched in his hands-before him. Good. The fewer people screaming and rushing around to where they could be sliced open or taken as hostages, the better.
Where were those Dark Helms? By the looks of things, Sollars had been enjoying watching Holdoncorp vice presidents get chopped apart-and Rusty couldn't find it in himself to blame him for that-but had been so intent on watching tall, handsome, blustering Executive Vice President Jackman Quillroque plead for his life and loudly try to call various Holdoncorp designers to their dooms via the intercom from desk after desk, that he hadn't kept close watch over the grim Dark Helms to make sure all six of them were still together.
They weren't.
Rusty dialled most of the long row of doors shut before he even started checking monitors. Lock them in little boxes first and foremost, then worry about what to do to them.
Four of them were bullying Quillroque, slicing away clothing as the man blubbered and pleaded. Jack the Mouth was bleeding from somewhere, but Rusty didn't think he was missing any fingers or ears yet.
The other two…
He caught sight of one of them almost immediately, skulking along a corridor that would take him right to the stairs up. Up to this floor, of course.
All that was delaying him was the time it was taking to peer into every cubicle, to make sure no Holdoncorp employee still lived, cowering in hiding. Sword drawn, helmed head thrust forward, the Dark Helm was the very picture of confident menace.
Damn. Rusty looked wildly around, at monitor after monitor. He couldn't see the last of the six at all.
Had Mase or Sam or one of their men actually managed to take out one of the intruders, before getting killed?
Rusty doubted it. "All in," Hank called from behind him, and Rusty heard the heavy Brain Central door clank shut before he could even reply.
He looked around. "Pete?"
"Y-yessir?"
Rusty pointed at the monitors. "Find me the sixth one. Fast."
Two strides took him to the phone, and he found himself ridiculously relieved to hear a dial tone when he slammed it against his ear.
There was no way these Dark Helms could get to the underground fiber optic bundle, to cut it, but he'd been beginning to fear they could do bloody anything.
He pushed the panic button, that got him straight to the police.
"Yo, Rusty! What's up?" The sergeant's voice sounded bored. "Someone steal your corporate headquarters while everyone was on coffee break?"
Rusty sighed. "Derek, this is serious. We're under attack. We have dozens dead. Repeat: dozens of fatalities. Six-"
"Under attack by what? A friggin' army?"
"Uh-" Rusty caught himself on the verge of saying "hijackers." How do you "hijack" a computer company? An office building?
Right. Terrorists, then.
"Terrorists, six of them, and-"
Rusty paused again, deciding he wouldn't mention the lorn just now. The disbelief was strong and clear in the sergeant's voice; this wasn't the time to give the man any stronger ideas of introducing overworked security chiefs to looney bins.
"Like World War Two commandos," he said instead. "Only with swords."
"Oh, ninjas. Why didn't you just say so? Ninjas. Right."
"I'm serious, damn it!" Rusty found he was gripping the phone in both hands as though trying to strangle it. "Mase is dead, Sam's dead, most or all of their men are dead too, and-"
The line went dead at the same time as the lights flickered, sparks burst from a nearby wall-panel as its door banged open, and Sollars quavered, his voice rising almost into a scream, "S-sir? Mister Carroll, sir? I've found the last one!"
Rusty looked up from the security desk to see two spark-spewing ends of a power lead swinging back and forth. The Dark Helm who'd just severed that cable turned from them, shuddering only a little, to stalk slowly across the room toward Rusty, sword raised and ready.
For the first time in nineteen years at Holdoncorp, its Head of Security reached for a holster that held only a billyclub flashlight, and cursed the company's "No handguns outside of our computer screens" policy.
Lord Irrance Tesmer came awake slowly. He was vaguely aware of a chill-the bedclothes were gone, leaving him bared to the night air-and knew with more pressing certainty that his head hurt.
Clara had snarled something in the night and stormed out of bed-she had, hadn't she? — and…
"Clara?" he mumbled, rolling over. No warm spot, and no heap of covers. His wife was gone.
He got himself hastily upright in bed, rubbing his eyes and trying to quell the prompt, severe blossoming of the ache in his head. "Clara?"
"I'm here, Ranee." Her voice was coming from the doorway, and it was sharp with anger.
Lord Tesmer came hastily all the way awake. Something had happened. Something that mattered. Something bad.
"What?" he blurted, looking wildly around for his sword while trying to keep an eye on his wife's face.
She was quivering like a hunting-hound straining to be let off the leash. Barefoot, in a dark gown, black hair loose around her shoulders in a flood, eyes two coals beneath scowling brows as they glared at him. She was furious, all right.
"What's happened?"
Lady Telclara Tesmer folded her arms across her chest. "Our gems are gone. All three coffers. The sack of coins, too. No alarm raised in the night, and the guards swear no one even approached the gates."
Tesmer blinked at his wife. "All the gems? Not the-the tunnel! They must have taken the tunnel!"
She nodded grimly. "Which means the thief is one of us-or one or more of the children. My crossthreads haven't been disturbed."
"Clara, I swear I didn't-"
His clumsy protest stumbled into silence under the slicing edge of her look of scorn. "I'm aware of that, dolt. I sleep with you, remember?"
Irrance winced. "What about the vaults?"
She lifted one shapely shoulder in a shrug. "Undisturbed. The guardian snake still asleep, the sprinkled line I left there unmarked. No one's been in there. So, yes, Ranee, we still have coins to our name." She took a long, slow step forward. "That's not the point."
Lord Tesmer winced. "Which of our children has betrayed us?"