"Don't waste your time, Kenway."
The lights go on and he sees a man in full military battle gear, all in black except for his pale blue helmet. He looks Japanese or Chinese, or maybe even Vietnamese.
"Who the hell are you?"
Miles knows full well who he isnot his name, but who sent him. He recognizes the uniform, and cold dread seeps through his soul. It's finally happenedthe New World Order has begun its takeover.
"Your new master," the trooper says. He's pointing an AK-47 at Miles's gut. "Out into the hall."
Miles looks down at his undershirt and boxer shorts. "At least let me get"
Without warning, the automatic rifle bursts to life. Miles cringes as it stitches a row of holes across the wall of the room.
"Move!"
Miles moves. Barefooted, he raises his hands above his head and pads toward the door. His heart thuds against his chest wall like a mailed fist. Where are they taking him? To a mass execution area? Or to a detention camp? Better a quick death here than a slow death in a camp.
With that thought powering him, he lowers his hands and grabs the doorknob. He pretends it won't turn.
"Something's wrong," he says. "It's locked."
The NWO trooper shoves the stock of his rife against Miles's back and barks: "Open it!"
"It won't turn, I tell you."
The trooper shoves him again and reaches past him ... and that leaves only one hand on the rifle.
Do I have the guts to do this? Miles wonders. His bladder feels ready to explode and he's got so much adrenaline flowing through him now he feels like he's floating. Do I?
Guts or not, this may be his only chance, so that leaves him no choice.
Miles twists and drives his right elbow into the trooper's throat as he grabs the AK-47. The trooper lets out a strangled cough and staggers back, clutching at his throat. Miles knees him in the balls as he gets a two-handed grip on the rifle and rips it free. Without hesitation he aims and fires a short burst. The rifle kicks and bucks and blows the bastard through the window onto the street below.
Miles stares at the ragged hole in the glass. Jesus, he did it! All that training paid off! He blew the son of a bitch away!
Suddenly the remaining glass is shattered by a barrage from below. Miles turns, ducks, and dives for the door. They'll be after him now. No time to get dressed. He runs out into the hall and automatically turns toward the elevators. He stops. No. Too easy to trap him there. He whirls and runs for the stairs.
As he reaches the door he hears a commotion behind him. He looks back and sees a squad of NWO troopers rush out of the elevator foyer.
"Damn!" he whispers and pushes through into the stairwell.
He starts down but hears the sound of running feet echoing from below. He's got only one option now, and since there's only one floor above him, that doesn't leave him far to go.
He bounds up four flights to a red door. The sign says:
FOR EMERGENCY ONLY ALARM WILL SOUND
He pushes through and, just as promised, the alarm starts ringing. And now he's on the roof and he knows it's Alamo time. He won't get out of this alive, but he'll take as many of the bastards as he can with him before he dies.
The oblivious city is lit up around him. In how many other buildings is this same scene being played out?
He finds an air conditioning vent and crouches behind it, points the AK-47 at the door, and waits.
Suddenly a nylon rope whips around his upper body and tightens like a noose, pinning his arms at his sides. He drops the rifle as he is yanked off his feet and into the air.
He looks above and sees a giant black helicopter reeling him in like a cheap toy in an arcade game. Why can't he hear it? Why doesn't he feel the wash from its rotating blades?
Rough hands haul him into the black maw in the side of the craft. As the rope is loosened and pulled over his head, an accented voice, much like that of the trooper he killed, whispers in his ear.
"We've been looking for you. You're too valuable to kill, so we've got a special spot reserved in one of the re-education camps. You'll make a fine addition to one of our units."
No! He won't be brainwashed!
Miles kicks out and leaps from the helicopter. Death first!
But a hand grabs the back of his shirt, and a different voice, a very American voice, starts shouting ...
"Easy, now. Easy. You don't want to hurt yourself." Miles looked down and saw the street eight stories below. With a cry of alarm, he turned and lurched awayinto the arms of a large black man in some sort of uniform.
"Hey, now, that's better!"
It took Miles a second to recognize him as a hotel security guard.
"Where am I? He said, shakily pulling free of the guard's grasp.
"Up on the roof."
"Howhow'd I get here?"
"Sleepwalking, I think. You sure didn't look completely awake when you passed me in the hall a few minutes ago. And since it's my job to be on the lookout for things like people wandering around dressed in their skivvies at four-thirty in the morning, I decided to follow you. Good thing I did or you'd be splattered on the sidewalk by now."
Miles shuddered. "But I never sleepwalk."
"Well, you did tonight. Come on," he said, gesturing toward the door to the stairs. "Let's get you back to your room."
Shakily, Miles led the way.
"We don't have to tell anyone about this do we?"
"I'll have to put it in my report," the guard said, "but it won't go beyond that."
"Good," Miles said, relieved. "Thank you. I have a reputation to uphold in this organization."
"I hear you. It's just a good thing I was upholding your ass a few moments ago or you wouldn't be worrying about your reputation or anything else."
The guard laughed good-naturedly. Miles saw nothing funny about it.
Jack ...
... feels his bed move and opens his eyes.
His eyes search for the clock's red numerals and can't find them. The room is dark ... too dark. Light from the street lamps below usually leaks around the edges of the drapes, but not now. A sound leaks through instead ... a deep basso rumble shuddering through the floor and walls.
His bed trembles as the rumble grows, mixing with frightened cries and wails from outside.
Jack rises and pads across the vibrating floor to the window where he pulls back the drapes. The moon is high and full in a pristine sky, bathing the world outside with glacial light. The street is clogged with crawling cars and frantic people screaming, running, clawing over each other in a scene out of every giant monster film ever made. It's The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms times ten, but this is no movie; this is real. Even up here on the fifth floor he can smell the raw-edged panic as the mob struggles downhill, west, toward the river. He scans his limited view to the east to see what's driving them. All he can tell is that the rest of the city is dark.
Power failure, he thinks, and then blinks. An icy phantom breeze ripples his nape hairs as he cups his hands around his eyes and squints through the glass ... it's too dark. Even with the power gone and the lights out, the moonlight should pick up something.
Jack slides the window back and pokes his head through the opening for a better look. If nothing else, the metallic top of the Empire State Building should be visible. But the sky is empty there, stars twinkle where buildings stood.
And that rumble, growing ever louder, deafening now, jittering the entire building on its foundation.
And then, still staring east, Jack sees an office building tilt, then fall away, disappearing behind the structure before it. And now that building is collapsing, and then the one in front of it follows, a wave of destruction coming his way.