Ragnarok: A Jack Sigler Thriller
Date: 2012-10-14 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Thriller; Adventure; Science Fiction; Fiction; Action; Military Fiction; Fantasy; Paranormal; Mystery Thriller
Description: It starts with a thunderous crack and a flash of light. Screams come next. Then the hunters. With a staccato flicker, the light disappears and everything within a hundred yard radius goes with it. A massive crater is all that remains where a chunk of the world has gone missing. As the deadly phenomenon repeats and expands amidst the world's most densely populated cities--carving apartment buildings in half, scooping away entire city blocks, and claiming thousands of lives--Jack Sigler, Callsign: King and his black ops team take action. But the team is broken, spread across the globe and vulner
Publisher: Breakneck Media

RAGNAROK

A Jack Sigler Thriller

Jeremy Robinson
with Kane Gilmour

Copyright ©2012 by Jeremy Robinson

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Jeremy Robinson at info@jeremyrobinsononline.com

Cover design copyright ©2012 by Jeremy Robinson

Ebook formatting by Stan Tremblay, www.FindTheAxis.com

Visit Jeremy Robinson on the World Wide Web at:

www.jeremyrobinsononline.com

Visit Kane Gilmour on the World Wide Web at:

www.kanegilmour.com

Older Kindle model? Click here for e-store.

For Norah Kathleen Robinson
and Moira Dawn Gilmour.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Ragnarok is different from all my other full length novels in that it was a collaborative effort with Kane Gilmour. While I have co-authored with several writers in the past, including Kane, those books were all novellas and less intense. I wasn’t entirely sure how this would work out, but I’m thrilled to say that the copy of Ragnarok you now hold in your hands exceeds my expectations and is a fantastic addition to the Chess Team universe. Kane is not only a great editor (he has edited something like twenty of my books now) but is also a fantastic author. So when you’re done with Ragnarok, do yourself a favor and pick up his other books.

I also need to thank a new cast of characters who helped make Ragnarok the boldest Jack Sigler story to date. Big thanks to Kent Holloway and Seven Realms publishing, who was willing to collaborate with this demanding author and publish the trade paperback edition of Ragnarok. For awesome edits, I must thank Jennifer Bagdigian. For fact checking and early reading, I offer a “booyah!” to Sean Ellis (co-author of Callsign: King, for those of you keeping track). Roger “Tex” Brodeur, your advance reading and typo-checking is once again appreciated. Thanks to Stan “Rook” Tremblay for amazing interior design and cover prep, and for being a swell guy. I owe you some pancakes.

And as always, I must thank my hardcore support team: my kids, Aquila “Concho” Robinson, Solomon “Monster” Robinson, Norah “Shorty” Robinson and my wife, Hilaree “Hoochie Mamma” Robinson. You are my clan. Without you, this stuff wouldn’t be nearly as fun. Love you guys.

“The fetters will burst, and the wolf run free;

Much do I know, and more can see

Of the fate of the gods, the mighty in fight.”

— The Poetic Edda

“Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil.”

— Aristotle

“There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge.”

— Rod Serling

PROLOGUE

Fenris Kystby, Norway

The Past

THE DEEP, RESONATING beat of drums rolled through the early morning fog like the thunderous footfalls of a frost giant. In response to the sound, an alarm bell rang in the distance—tiny and pitiful. Hrolf Agnarsson knew the monastery’s monks would be rising from their slumbers and arming themselves, but he wasn’t concerned. He’d led many raids before, and the battle was often won before the ships even made landfall. If the drums didn’t do it, the fiery torches lighting the dragonhead prows sent most of the God-fearing men running.

The drums reached a fevered pace as the ships cut through the fog. Agnarsson’s beard, clumpy with debris from a hastily eaten breakfast, twitched as the man grinned. The monk’s heartbeats would keep pace with the drums. By the time his raiding party reached the monastery, the men who remained would be exhausted from fear and from holding weapons in sweaty hands.

There were times when he longed for a true fight, but he wasn’t ready to be sent to the halls of Asgard quite yet. Not when there was plundering to be done. Live like a King on Earth, his father taught him, and be greeted by Odin as a son.

He looked up at the gray walls of the monastery. His smile widened when he saw several men fleeing from the gates. The Irish never put up much of a fight, he thought.

Irish monks, persecuted refugees from their own island homeland, had decided to settle and build a small structure that had later blossomed into the gray, rock-walled monastery. Other Vikings had led raids on the Irish on their island, but Agnarsson had suggested he and his men come up and pillage the Irishmen right here at home. Monks always had good food and drink, as well as skins and books and other things that raiders could sell in the southern markets. Women would have made the raid even better, but Agnarsson had rarely found women in a monastery.

The drums beat on, and for the first time, Agnarsson let his pulse quicken.

The ship scraped over the smooth stones of the shore. The rumble beneath his feet acted like a trigger. “Hoooaaarrhhggg!” he shouted, thrusting his axe high into the air. The thirty men behind him abandoned their oars, stood and drew their weapons, joining in the war cry. Then, as one, they vacated the boat with him, jumping into the frigid knee-deep water with little thought or care.

When the two neighboring longships unloaded, each carrying thirty more men, Agnarsson actually heard screams rise up from within the monastery. If they weren’t afraid before, Agnarsson thought, they are pissing themselves now.

The knowledge quickened his pace.

Rocky shoreline gave way to soft earth. His two-hundred-fifty-pound body left indentations with every step. Halfway to the monastery, he shed his skins and let them fall to the ground behind him. The furs had already begun to overheat his body, and in a moment, they would only be in the way. And his body—muscular and coated with the dried blood of previous kills—would set his foes’ legs to shaking.

Agnarsson rounded the first of the outbuildings and came to a stop. There, standing before him, was something he’d never encountered before. Ten monks, armed with swords, stood waiting. He admired their bravery. Ten Irish monks against ninety Viking raiders. A ridiculous thing. Yet here they stood.

He looked into their eyes and saw their fear. Brave, but not fools, Agnarsson thought. They know death has come for them.

Ninety men stopped behind him, facing down the ten.

And still, they stood their ground.

This will not do, Agnarsson thought. He took pride in his ability to instill fear in men. That these men stood against that fear was an insult. He searched their eyes, seeing only terror. Then why...

Then he saw it. One of the men held his sword like he knew how to use it. He might even be dangerous.

They stand because of him.

Agnarsson laughed and lowered his axe. He looked back at his men and they laughed, too. They all knew the joke and the punch line. It was time to share it with the monks.

With a speed that belied his size, Agnarsson turned forward again and with a twitch of his arm, threw his axe. The heavy blade spun in oblong circles as it sailed through the air. It came to rest with a wet smack and buried deep in the rib cage of the brave man. Ribs split. Lungs burst. The man’s heart severed in two, freeing him from this world and the remaining monks from their duty.

Swords struck the earth one by one as the nine remaining monks fled. They’d only made it five steps before the raiding party sprang into action. Waves of men surged past Agnarsson. He watched the glory unfold. Flames rose, along with screams. Monks fled, and died. Blood soaked into the earth.

With the casual gait of a man who knew that life couldn’t get any better, Agnarsson strode up to the monk who held the axe in his chest. He put his booted foot upon the man’s chest and pushed. The ribs flexed and cracked, loosening their grip on the axe blade. With a slurp, the weapon came free. The weight of the weapon in his hands and the sight of blood dripping from it brought a fresh smile to his face.

It grew wider still when he saw a monk fleeing toward him. The man had five raiders on his heels. And they would have overtaken the man if they hadn’t seen Agnarsson waiting, axe rising up. Taking careful aim, Agnarsson wondered if he could cleave the man in two. His muscles flexed. His grip tightened. He swung.

And missed.

As the axe split the air, a brilliant flash of light, made brighter by the white snow underfoot, forced his eyes shut. Blinded, he didn’t see the monk fall to the ground. The axe sailed through air and nothing more. The momentum of the missed blow nearly flung him to the ground, but he regained his balance and avoided the humiliation.

He opened his eyes to more bright light. Lightning arced through the sky above him, crackling with the sharpness of breaking trees. Then he realized that the sound, in fact, was snapping tree trunks. He turned around toward the source of the light and found its brightness now missing, along with a portion of earth and the trees within it. Odin had reached down from Asgard and scooped away part of the world.

As the monk behind him started praying to his “one true God,” Agnarsson turned toward the man. “It is a sign,” he said. “Odin takes from the earth as he desires. Just as he would have us do.” He raised the axe, but the monk was spared once again.

An ear-splitting roar rolled over the monastery like a tangible spirit.

The sound reverberated off the stone walls of the buildings his men had set alight. He could feel the sound in his heart, thrumming and humming. Hardened Viking raiders fell to their knees, some of them screaming in terror. The few remaining monks passed out or pissed their robes. Every man around him screamed as if his soul was being yanked out and flung down to Neifelheim.

Agnarsson had known his men all his life. They feared nothing. No God and no man. But now they were weeping and blubbering like babes. Some of the men—his men—started to flee into the woods. So complete was their panic that not one of them realized they were running toward the sound’s source, rather than away.

That’s when he caught a glimpse of the thing moving like a breeze through the snows, leaping between the trees and even up onto the sides of them before springing away, almost too quickly for Agnarsson’s eye to follow. Then it was gone in the shadows.

The first of his men to reach the trees was torn apart. Agnarsson didn’t see it happen, but the sounds of tearing flesh and muffled screams were fodder for the mind’s eye. Then the lower half of Magnus Trondheim’s red-haired legs flew through the air and tangled in the lower branches of one of the half-eaten trees. Other men had bolted at that sight, but Agnarsson had stood stock still, staring in wonder. He knew whatever the creature was, it wasn’t human.

The roar came again, but this time from inside the monastery.

There is more than one, Agnarsson realized.

The few men still rooted in place came unglued, and with shouts of horror, they ran without mind or any sense of where they were going. Only Agnarsson remained in place, not because he was brave, but because he was petrified. He kept a firm grip on his axe while warm piss trickled down his inner thigh.

His mind—spurred by lessons taught by a remorseless father, fought for control. It is too cursed fast to be a bear or a wolf.

The roar came again, dropping him to one knee.

The sound was closer, bouncing back at him from the trees and the falling snow all around him in the early morning gloom. A few of his men yet lived, but whimpered in terror. The vibration in Agnarsson’s eardrums was intense. His bones felt as if they rattled in his body. He couldn’t see the creature, but he knew it was near.

Then he heard the movement. Fast. Coming right for him. He whirled around and swung his double-bladed axe wide, hoping he might strike the beast out of sheer luck and force.

Instead, the world before him transformed into the sun.

Brightness assaulted Agnarsson’s sight—so intense and painful that it scorched his eyes even through his tightly shut eyelids. Thunder shouted and lightning crackled again, this time blasting out from all around him.

Guarding his eyes with his hands, he chanced a look and witnessed the giant ball of light collapse inward. Silence sucked the thunderous din away like a thirsty man slurping up the last of his mead, and Agnarsson was left alone in the dull light of early morning.

His men lay dead in the shallow snow all around him. Some of them, caught half within the sphere of light and half without, had been cut cleanly in half.

He looked down to see that his own body had been cleaved as well. His axe was gone and so was most of his axe arm below the shoulder. The wound had been closed with searing heat, the fire so hot he hadn’t even noticed he was injured. Now he looked down at his blackened stump in shock.

The creatures were gone. Nothing moved in the snow. The ball of lightning and fire was gone. Everyone around him was dead. But even more shocking was that the monastery itself, along with the ninety-odd raiders and scores of monks, had vanished. All that remained was a large bowl-shaped indentation in the ground.

He stumbled away from the site, looking back at the devastation. He did not know what it was that had attacked him, or where they had come from. But at the last moment, just before the blast, he had seen it. One of the creatures. He lacked the language to describe what he saw, but he would never forget it.

Agnarsson lost all of his men, his axe and his arm, but he had been spared his life for some unknown reason. And he did not understand why. But he would remember this night for the rest of his life. It would haunt him. His father had been wrong, there were things in the world that mortal men simply could not fight.

THE SOUND OF FEAR

ONE

São Paulo, Brazil

The Present, 2 November, 2200 Hrs

SÃO PAULO WAS the largest city in Brazil and the largest in the southern hemisphere. It was also the sixth largest in the world in population. After today, it would be fourteenth.

The sky went bright with a loud crack and a crash of thunder. Lightning arced across the city, and a massive ball of glowing light appeared. It was yellow and swallowed several city blocks. The sphere crackled and pulsed as if it were made of pure energy. As it grew, the electrical phenomenon engulfed building after building. Security cameras around the city captured hazy, static-filled images of the creatures that eventually emerged. The first people to encounter them were torn apart. But even more people, still living, and screaming and gibbering, were dragged away into the spitting ball of fire.

After nearly twenty minutes, the globe of devastation sucked both sound and light out of the world before it winked out of existence. The crater left behind was immense. Buildings on the edge of the giant divot toppled inward, killing hundreds more still hiding in their apartments. Later, rescue workers would find that everything at the edge of the dome had been severed cleanly—buildings, roads, Metro tunnels and even human bodies, which littered the edge of the circumference of the effect. Over a million dead in just a few minutes.

Karachi, Pakistan

3 November, 0600 Hrs

AS DAWN BLED light into the sky over the city, it brought thunder and lightning. But there were no clouds in the sky.

Karachi and its environs had grown from an estimated population of five million in 1980 to over twenty million—many of them refugees from successive wars in neighboring Afghanistan, first against the Russians, then against its own people and finally against the Americans. The city eventually took measures to purify the putrid and smog-coated air by planting more gardens and building more parks. Traffic was diverted onto high-speed overpasses. Still, the city continued to grow and grow, as refugees poured in.

The newest arrival appeared just as the noisy city was waking up. The ball of light hovered in the air, just a foot off the black asphalt, between the open doors of Jinnah International Airport and the McDonald’s restaurant that sat just opposite. Hundreds of crows complained at the interruption of their normal morning routine, scavenging food from nearby trash cans and along the edges of the road. They took flight, fleeing the intruding brilliance and cawing. The ball was no larger than three feet in diameter initially. But then it grew quickly and when it stopped, the fast-food franchise and a good portion of the airport were enveloped. Lightning crackled out of the center of the blinding sphere, blasting people and nearby structures.

The noise was deafening. As a repeated sound of thunder boomed, the cracks of bone-shaking sound pierced the morning air. Screams added to the din. Then something came out of the light, tearing into anything with flesh and rending it in seconds. The attacking thing moved too quickly to be seen in the dazzling light.

Then, with no warning, the piercing noise stopped, leaving only silence in its wake.

The light disappeared.

The sphere of devastation came and went in just ten minutes, but it took a scoop of the city with it. Cleaved buildings stood with their plumbing and electrical wires exposed; the ground was a perfectly smooth crater where previously asphalt, cars and pedestrians had been. It was as if a small sun had briefly made an appearance right on the surface of the Earth, clawing away all she held, until nothing remained. The tally of the number of dead or missing would take weeks, but in the end, it would be in the tens of thousands.

Seoul, South Korea

3 November, 1000 Hrs

THE CABLE CAR that took visitors up to the top of Namsan Mountain, and the huge communications tower on top of the mountain, began to shake violently, before a blast of lightning severed the cable completely.

Fifteen people sat inside the car that had nearly reached the top of its 1900-foot journey up a graduated height of 500 feet in altitude. The car plummeted 60 feet to the ground before they began to bounce and slide down the mountainside, leaving long grooves in the soil. Despite the impacts and jolts, all fifteen people survived the fall with nothing more than broken bones, multiple contusions and various cuts and scrapes.

They were the lucky ones.

As they plummeted down the mountain on one side, a sizzling globe of death appeared on the other side of the steel and concrete 777-foot tower at the summit of the mountain, chewing a hole in everything it touched. Spreading out in an arc of chaos and destruction, the unknown phenomenon scoured the northwest side of the mountain, erasing the Jung-gu and Seongdong-gu neighborhoods before imploding and leaving nothing more than a scar on the ground that stretched three miles in diameter.

Cairo, Egypt

3 November, 0300 Hrs

AT THREE IN the morning, even a behemoth like Cairo slumbers. The incessant honking of vehicle horns dies down for just a few hours. They would start again around 5 a.m., but the cacophony would be softer than usual.

The Egyptians, even in the middle of the night, were the first to mobilize military units against the phenomenon, their forces on a constant ready standby, after the recent events of Arab Spring.

The Egyptian Army managed to get an M6-2000 main battle tank on site in time to fire its M1A1 main turret conversion kit gun, with its 20 mm shells, at the pulsing, glowing target. However, as far as the Egyptians could see, the massive shells made little difference, disappearing into the energy without a trace.

Egyptian Air Force F-16 fighters arrived on scene just in time to fire a single AGM-84 Harpoon anti-ship missile at the glowing sphere that stood hurtling lightning bolts where the InterContinental Cairo Semiramis hotel had been earlier that night. But just before the missile hit, the thundering roar and crackling light winked out, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The remaining crater quickly began to fill with the waters of the River Nile. The missile plunged under the water and detonated at the bottom of the crater, sending up a sticky geyser of mud, water and sand. Cairo was about to get a new lake—right in the middle of the city.

Los Angeles, CA

2 November, 1800 Hrs

RUSH HOUR WAS still grinding away when a spherical chunk of the freeway evaporated in a ball of sizzling light and blistering beams of lightning that speared through random motorists and their pastel colored minivans and coupes. Traffic had stopped anyway, so hundreds of motorists simply abandoned their cars and ran away from the brilliant orb. Most of them eluded the lightning strikes, although a few were electrocuted as they ran. One man was hit by a glancing blow that sent him into the air across five cars, only to roll off the hood of a Ford Taurus and resume his sprint as if nothing had happened.

Brian Daly sat transfixed as he watched it all happen through the windscreen of his tan Prius. He wondered briefly if he should also get out and run, as Lightning Man was doing, but then he saw the things streaking out of the ball of light. They were drawn to the fleeing people—hunting them. Daly noticed that the creatures ignored the motorists still in their cars, so he sat as still as he could, allowing only his eyes to move as he followed the carnage.

The things were fast. Damn fast. And hard to see. They weren’t immaterial, like ghosts, but there was something strange about them. They were...indistinct, though that could also be from the fact that much of what he was seeing was in his periphery.

They were strong, too. He saw several people attacked, their limbs or heads torn away with ease. The things moved on all fours like animals, but could also stand or run on their hind legs, erect, like humans. But these things were not human. Not even close. One of the creatures raised its head, but all Daly saw was its bulbous eyes, swiveling back and forth like a chameleon’s, before it ducked away, racing after anything that moved and ignoring anything that cowered.

Daly sat transfixed and somehow remained eerily calm, as if he were watching a summer blockbuster, instead of the deaths of hundreds of rush-hour drivers. Then one of the creatures clambered atop the roof of a GMC Suburban to his left. He strained his eyes for a better view, but didn’t dare rotate his head. In his peripheral vision, he saw the thing lift its head to the sky like a wolf and howl.

The sound was devastating—a soul-cutting, sonic assault, unlike anything Daly had ever heard. The sound shook the bones inside his skin. He lost control of his bowels. His bladder let go and the saliva in his mouth began to pour down over his lower lip as if he’d been in a dentist’s chair with a few gallons of Novocain pumped into his system. Terror took hold of him. His eyes went wide. His body shook uncontrollably.

Later, after the creatures returned to the light, and the globe of lightning flickered out, leaving behind an enormous crater and thousands dead or dying, Brian Daly’s mind finally returned to some semblance of what it had been. But he would never be the same. He didn’t know what he had just seen, but he knew that local police forces would be helpless against it. Whatever those things had been, even the military would be hard-pressed to stop them. Still, he needed to tell someone what he had just seen. His brother Steven was an Army Ranger. Steve was just a captain, but he might be able to get the information to someone higher up. Daly pulled out his cell phone and called his brother as fast as his shaking fingers would allow.

Philadelphia, PA

2 November, 2100 Hrs

MOMENTS AFTER THE carnage in the other cities began, the Liberty Bell began to glow.

Currently situated in the Liberty Bell Center, adjacent to the glass pavilion that had housed the bell from 1976 until 2003, the bell is the object of visitation by over a million tourists a year. But the facility closed to visitors at 5 p.m.. Only three security guards remained on hand when the inscription on the bell, Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof, began to luminesce. One of the three guards—the one furthest from the actual 2,080-pound copper-and-tin attraction—had just enough time to slap his hand on a large red emergency alarm before the surge of light engulfed him.

Police responded quickly. They closed 6th Street and set up barricades on Market and Chestnut, thinking people would be safe at that distance. They were wrong.

Sergeant Gina Martinez stepped out of her cruiser at the barricade to an unholy sight. A giant dome of intense light throwing forked spears of lightning. Thunder boomed despite the clear sky full of stars above her head. She stepped up to the edge of the park, her mouth agape at the sight. The spectacle washed out the strobing colors from her cruiser’s light bar as well as from the forty others arrayed around her on the street and up on the sidewalk.

What the hell is that? she wondered.

“Clayton,” she called to a plainclothes detective who was near her. “What is this thing? Terrorist attack?”

“Beats the hell outta me. We got an alarm on the bell. Thought it was a B&E or something. We’re trying to keep people out of the way of those lightnin’ bolts, but other than that, what the frig are we supposed to do? Fire Chief is on the way and the Mayor’s got the Guard coming, too. I guess we just wait and see.”

Just then, a huge bolt of lightning struck close to their position and incinerated a tall maple tree.

“Shit! That was close.” Gina ducked instinctively, but by the time she had crouched, the lightning was already done with the tree. Had it hit her...

“I think it’s getting bigger.” Clayton sounded nervous.

“That’s what she said,” Gina replied, her whispered voice on autopilot. She’d spent the previous night with her girlfriends. They sat around her apartment binging on nachos, drinking margaritas and watching The Office until every other sentence was “That’s what she said.”

“I’m serious. Look. The top of the dome is above the roof and the edge is touching the credit union now.”

“Damnit, you’re right.” Gina’s hand went instinctively to the handle of her holstered Glock, before she realized how useless her weapon would be against a glistening whitish-yellow dome of lightning. Still, she kept her hand on the grip. It prolonged her life.

Four shapes bolted out of the center of the crackling energy. Gina saw them move. She dropped and rolled to the left just as one of them tore into Clayton, sending his legs in one direction and the rest of him in the other. All Gina saw was a smooth, white color and the movement of muscles, as if whatever she was seeing had no skin and was covered in skim milk.

The other shapes tore into the rest of the cruisers. Blood sprayed away from every impacted police officer. Gina could barely track them, but she drew her weapon anyway and focused on one of the creatures. She might not have had a chance to stop it, but it paused suddenly and seemed to sniff the air. What she saw was terrifying. The beast’s eyes swiveled toward her and then it was in motion again, coming right for her. She couldn’t see it that well, but she remembered that eye and fired five times, where she thought it would be. The thing crashed to the asphalt right in front of her, pulling a scream from her lungs.

A mistake.

The other three creatures stopped and focused their swiveling eyes on her.

What the hell are you? she had time to think.

Then one of the creatures opened its mouth and roared. The sound was so loud it vibrated her body. Sheer terror took hold of her, and her thoughts simply shut down. The gun fell from her hand and she lost all control of her bodily functions as she collapsed on the corpse of the creature in front of her. Her body shook uncontrollably. When her body was pulled by the ankle, back toward the curved, pulsating wall of light, her fear-locked mind never noticed.

TWO

Fenris Kystby, Norway

3 November, 0500 Hrs

STAN TREMBLAY LOOKED down at the blood leaking from the puncture wound in his upper arm and said, “Oh, it’s on now, you pecker-noodles!”

His shoulder had only just started to heal from the trauma a few days earlier. He glanced up at the villagers surrounding him in a semicircle. Most of them were hanging back, but they wielded farm weapons, kitchen knives and even homemade torches. The man with the pitchfork, a villager he knew to be named Roald, was the closest. He reached out his bleeding arm as quick as a snake strike and snatched the pitchfork away from the man. Roald stepped back slightly, in shock. Then the glazed look returned to his eyes. A look all the villagers had.

A look of hate.

Roald moved forward to attack again, this time barehanded after the loss of his pitchfork. Tremblay swung the shaft of the pitchfork around in a wide arc and clocked Roald in the side of the head. The man crumpled to the grassy field. The others paused. Just long enough for Tremblay to bring the wooden pitchfork handle across his knee and splinter it like a toothpick.

“I’m done fuckin’ around with you people.”

The look of hatred surged in the eyes of the villagers, and then they all rushed at him.

Stan Tremblay was a pretty big guy. With his blue eyes, long blonde goatee and hulking size, he could have easily fit in as one of the local Norwegian mountain men. But his Russian accent was better than his Norwegian one, so when he had hiked into town looking for some peace and quiet, he had said he was a former Russian soldier. These people all knew him as Stanislav. None of them suspected that he was secretly a former Delta operator, one of five who made up Chess Team, a deep cover black ops group that faced threats to not only the United States, but to the whole world. When his last mission in Siberia had gone south, Tremblay, callsign: Rook, had felt he needed some time to get his head straight. After a journey aboard an Arctic fishing trawler, on his way from Russia to Norway, Rook had come ashore and just started walking. The land was desolate and windswept, and he figured if he couldn’t organize his thoughts in this remote place, then he wouldn’t be able to do it anywhere.

Instead of solitude though, Rook had found himself helping the locals with a predator that was eating their livestock. He had discovered some of the town’s dirty laundry, but certainly not enough to warrant a mob showing up on the edge of the farm where Rook was staying. He knew some of these people. They had just been expressing their gratitude to him days earlier.

As the first man, a stoic Norwegian named Baldur, got close, Rook swung out with his left hand—still clutching the business end of the snapped pitchfork. The outer rusted tine grazed the man’s cheek, but still he came on with a broad-bladed farm implement Rook had never seen before. Baldur made to swing with the heavy tool, and Rook stepped into the blow, smashing his forehead down on Baldur’s nose. A gout of blood sprayed through the air as the man recoiled. Rook hoped that because his size and gruff demeanor alone hadn’t been enough to make these people back off, maybe a few simple displays of violence would do the trick. He had started by talking to the crowd. But that hadn’t worked. All it had gotten him from the maddened villagers was a few puncture holes in an already injured shoulder. He glanced back at the farm behind him, where he had left his .50 caliber Magnum Desert Eagle, concealed in the hay of the barn. He wished he had brought it now. Hopefully Peder, the old man that had been letting Rook sleep in his barn, would stay out of sight—or at least if he did come out, Rook hoped the man would have the sense to come out with the barrel of his well-kept shotgun leading the way.

Two more men rushed Rook. He poked the blunt end of the wooden shaft into one man’s gut. A cough of air burst from the man’s throat as he dropped to his knees. Before Rook could swing the pointed half of his damaged weapon at the other man, he felt a hard smack on his shoulder blade. The second man had hit him with the flat of a shovel.

A shovel? Seriously? These people were making him mad. He swung around in a full circle, bringing the wooden stick to the back of the man’s knees like an Escrima stick, then he helped the man’s descent to the sod by slamming the flat of the metal fork down on the falling man’s chest as he went.

“So much for a few displays of violence.” Rook saw that the villagers assembled against him were not backing down, and all had murder in their hearts. Even the woman, Anni, and her two children were in the crowd, each wielding some kind of improvised weapon. The thin blonde woman had a kitchen knife and her kids were armed with screwdrivers. He was about to say something about how if they wouldn’t back down, he was going to have to bring his “A” game. But just then he heard a scream of anguish from behind him. Rook glanced back and saw the barn had just erupted into flames—with the horses still inside. He recognized the voice as Peder’s, and he saw two more of the villagers that had circled around him were tossing kerosene cans at the blaze.

“Monkeyfu—” He was cut off by the blade of a pair of pruning shears slicing across his chest. A woman he didn’t know was about to take another swing at him, and a man was swiping a 2x4 at Rook’s head. He squatted low, allowing the swing to clear his head, and as he sprang back up to his feet, he let the woman have it with a left uppercut to the jaw, the wooden stick still clutched in his meaty hand. As her small body began to launch into the air, he kicked out with his left, booted foot, and caught the 2x4 man in the throat, just under his thick beard.

Another man Rook had seen in the village swung the blade of an electric hedge trimmer at Rook’s left side. The damned thing wasn’t even running, but the glaze-eyed Nordic man swung it anyway, as if doing so would finally end all his woes.

Rook took several steps backward. The people were getting too close. The fierce breeze in the early morning gloom would drive the flames on the barn harder. He had to ensure Peder and as many of the man’s horses as possible made it out of the flames in time. But the villagers were giving him no respite. It was as if the sight of the rising flames in the barn and Rook’s slight retreat had energized them. Where previously they were each taking pokes at Rook with their respective weapons, now they all simply ran at him.

“Hot friggin’ pancakes, you morons won’t give up, will you?”

And then the fight began. Rook started moving his feet and whirling his arms with the metal pitchfork fragment in one hand and the improvised Escrima stick in the other. Instead of waiting for the crowd to get to him, Rook headed into them and to the left. He smashed two men to the ground with his forearms, backhanded a woman with the stick on the follow-through of another strike and launched a kick at the midsection of a portly man in his fifties. Rook spun and struck with the weapons, taking down woman and man alike. When Anni’s kids made it to the forefront of the fray, he simply booted them away with low kicks, not putting his full strength into it at all. They flew away and their screwdrivers were lost in the short grass.

Even as hard and fast as he fought though, Rook was getting tired. His fingers were getting numb in the cold morning air, and the size of the mob wasn’t diminishing rapidly enough. Some of the men he’d put down at the start of the fight were getting back into it. Then he heard a shotgun blast from behind him in the raging flames. He glanced back just in time to see the man that had become his friend in the last weeks, Peder, fall down onto the ground, a villager standing over him with a large stick, and the shotgun falling away to the side.

Rook turned to sprint to Peder’s aid when he saw the man bring the stick down hard, end first, into Peder’s face.

“No!” Rook started pumping his legs but something tripped him up, and he went sprawling to the ground. His mouth filled with dirt when he hit. Then something whacked his leg hard. He rolled away from the impact and spit the dirt out of his mouth. He pulled his legs up over his head into a backward somersault, landing crouched on his feet. He had dropped the metal pitchfork stick and now had only his two-foot length of splintered wood. As his body came to a stop from the roll, he spotted what had tripped him up. It was one of Anni’s kids. A little boy no taller than three feet, his long blonde hair tangled and streaming behind him, his short sharp breaths huffing, making him look like some feral jungle boy. He had the screwdriver clutched in his hand again and was driving it forward right at Rook’s face. Rook swatted at the hand that held the tool’s handle, knocking the thing from the boy’s grip, but the kid kept coming on. Rook balled his empty hand into a fist and conked the brat on the top of his head, this time sending the little beast into unconsciousness.

Rook slowly stood, seeing perhaps twenty bodies on the ground, most of whom were writhing in agony, but a few of whom were still out after the damage he had inflicted. The problem was, there were thirty or so people still standing, and they were all coming straight at him like a tide of screaming soldiers in some sword-and-sandal epic. Rook took a deep breath. His face darted back to Peder and saw that the man’s body lay unmolested in the grass. His attackers were coming right at Rook.

And one of them now held Peder’s shotgun.

THREE

Mount Kadam, Uganda

3 November, 0600 Hrs

SHIN DAE-JUNG, CALLSIGN: Knight, lay perfectly still in the long, yellowed grass, with the black combat boot-clad foot of a soldier standing on his hand.

He was invisible in the long grass, with his ghillie suit covered in more of it, but if the soldier were to glance down, Knight might still be spotted. His trigger hand throbbed from the weight of the soldier’s foot, but he didn’t dare to flex it even slightly. Knight’s left hand was clenched firmly on the handle of his KA-BAR knife, still sheathed on his chest. If the soldier made him, or worse—tripped over the camouflaged experimental EXACTO sniper rifle on the ground in front of him—Knight would launch upward and thrust the blade of the Marine Corps knife deep into the Ugandan soldier’s chest. But right now, Knight’s cover was more important, so he remained still, barely breathing, in tiny increments.

If it hadn’t been for the damn shooting, I would have heard this bastard before he was on me. The group of soldiers he had been watching fired their weapons in the dawn sky like idiots after a rousing speech from their leader.

Knight had been deployed to Uganda to perform surveillance on a small offshoot guerilla faction. Led by Romeo Kigongo, the United Faithful Army was a militant and unruly branch of the Lord’s Resistance Army. The LRA had recently come to the attention of the world for the atrocities they perpetrated on the weak and poor of rural Uganda, as well as for their incursions into neighboring African states using child soldiers as cannon fodder. The Ugandan military had been hopeless in tracking down the LRA, but eventually the world media began focusing on the group and its leader, Joseph Kony. When the world finally started clamoring for Kony’s head in 2012 (the United States and other nations had labeled him as a terrorist of special interest years earlier), many of Kony’s lieutenants—Romeo Kigongo included—simply formed their own splinter groups and returned to the life of pri-vacy their smaller fiefdoms had previously provided them. Kigongo’s group, the UFA, would probably have gone unnoticed for years if they hadn’t made an incursion into Tanzania to steal eight hundred million dollars worth of uncut diamonds. Now funded properly, they were taking the next step in the Interna-tional Bad Boy game. They were seeking a portable nuclear device.

Knight and a teammate had been sent to the grassy plateau near Mount Kadam to watch the early morning deal go down, mark the players and then, if possible, kill the UFA members with knowledge of the deal and deactivate the device. Knight and his teammate would then be extracted with the nuclear material.

The only problem was the timing. As a part of the former Delta group known as Chess Team, which was now part of a larger black ops organization known as Endgame, Knight was privy to all kinds of intelligence, but in this case, his headquarters-based handler, callsign: Deep Blue, named after the chess-playing supercomputer, had only been able to provide him with a location and a general timeframe.

No exact date.

No exact time.

Knight had been lying in the grass for three days now.

It’s a wonder he can’t smell me.

The soldier hadn’t moved from Knight’s hand in twenty minutes. Deep Blue had been tracking the operation through an NSA satellite and communicating with Knight through a tactical earplug, but Deep Blue hadn’t said anything in hours and Knight guessed that was just plain bad luck. If Deep Blue had been watching, he would have warned Knight of the soldier’s arrival long before Knight’s digits got mashed into the soil. All he could do now was wait. If the solider moved on, fine. But if he stayed put much longer, Knight would have to break cover and risk the noise of killing the man—his hand simply couldn’t take too much more.

“Please tell me that tango isn’t standing near you.” Knight’s partner, Erik Sommers, callsign: Bishop, spoke so softly and calmly in Knight’s earphone that the man could have been resting in an easy chair. Bishop was somewhere off to Knight’s left across the huge field. Knight didn’t know exactly where Bishop was, but he knew that the man probably would have had a great view of the guerillas down the slope of the field. He wouldn’t have been keeping an eye on Knight’s position for the most part. Deep Blue was supposed to do that.

Unable to respond verbally, Knight slipped his tongue out of his mouth and touched the sensitive lip-microphone he wore. The resulting sound would be an audible click in Bishop’s earpiece. A yes.

“Is he on your hide?”

Another flick of the tongue. Yes.

Bishop let Knight hear his chuckle. “Figures. Deep Blue, you copy? Could use some eyes in the sky right now.” Bishop’s voice still stayed soft and level, as if he held no real interest in the fact that his teammate was close to being compromised. It almost sounded like the man was about to fall asleep.

Deep Blue did not respond, which was unusual, but far less strange than Deep Blue not warning Knight about incoming enemy forces.

“Knight, you want me to intervene?” Bishop inquired, almost Zen-like in his serenity.

Knight considered for just a moment. His hand was sore as hell, but if the soldier needed to be taken down, it would probably be better for him to do it with the knife than for Bishop to come across the field with his custom-modified XM312-B machine gun that could turn the soldier into paste, but which would also alert half of Uganda. He slid his tongue out twice to touch the lip-mic. No.

Knight was about to call it a day and unsheathe the knife when Deep Blue finally spoke in his ear.

“Sorry I was away. I’ll explain later. Knight, I see you’re in the shit. Stay down, I’m sending Bishop to you. We need to abandon this op.” Deep Blue’s voice, masked by voice modulation in case anyone were to pick up on their frequency, was still full of tension. Something was deeply wrong. The team rarely abandoned an operation. Anticipating the reaction of his teammates, and the questions Bishop would pose because Knight was unable to speak without giving away his cover, Deep Blue continued. “I need you both in Cairo an hour ago. Something huge is going down. Bishop, kill the tangos. Hit however many of the soldiers downfield as you can. Transport is inbound to your location and should arrive in less than two minutes. Go.”

With that, thunder filled the air as Bishop stepped out of cover on the edge of the field. Despite his adopted Scandinavian-American name, Bishop was a huge mountain of a muscled man, with deep chestnut Persian skin that revealed his true heritage. He looked perfectly at home holding the long-barreled machine gun. It boomed with each shot, sending .50 caliber rounds scorching through the air at a rate of almost 800 rounds a minute. The top half of the soldier standing on Knight’s hand turned to a cloud of mist with the first hit, and the man’s legs fell over onto Knight’s back.

Knight didn’t stand. There was no point. His weapon was already aligned with the bulk of the soldiers down the field, and they had all stopped to turn and stare in Knight’s direction, temporarily dumbfounded by the roar of Bishop’s machine gun, which sounded like a fleet of supersonic jets each crossing the sound barrier, one after another. Boom. Boom. Boom. Knight swept his sore hand to the grip of the weapon, glanced down the scope and began taking out his own targets. He went for headshots, and one after the next, removed another fanatical Ugandan terrorist from the world.

Bishop began stalking across the field toward Knight, sweeping the barrel of his XM312-B to the side of him as he went, mowing down wave after wave of the enemy combatants. In many cases, Bishop’s indiscriminant sweep hit the living and dead—men on the receiving end of Knight’s long-range, .50 caliber sniper rounds.

“Where’s that pickup?” Knight asked.

“It’ll be here,” Bishop said, his calm only slightly interrupted by the pounding of his weapon’s vibration on his body.

The still-living members of the UFA had hit the dirt and were firing back with Russian AK-47 assault rifles, which only had an effective range of about 450 yards—nowhere near the distance away that Bishop and Knight were—but Knight had also spotted them readying a few rocket-propelled grenades and he knew those could reach his position. Still, it would take little effort for him and Bishop to hold off the 30 soldiers still in the fight.

Knight picked up his EXACTO, short for EXtreme ACcuracy Tasked Ordnance, which made hitting targets a mile away much easier thanks to its “fire and forget” ammunition, which stayed on target by changing shape while in flight. He changed positions quickly, focusing on the small breakaway group to his right, across the field. The ones with the rockets. He assumed a kneeling stance and launched a few rounds toward the group. He took two men with one bullet, piercing the first man’s head and the second man’s chest.

So much for—

Then the ground at the front of the field, between his position and the terrorists, erupted in a spurt of flame. Dark-colored soil launched into the air. Knight moved his eye from the scope and looked up to see an A-10 Thunderbolt II ground attack fighter. The plane was commonly known as the “Warthog” and it bristled with armaments and a GAU-8 heavy rotary nose-mounted cannon. The plane was painted olive drab green, but its belly was painted in garish, thin, black, red and yellow stripes.

At first, Knight had thought their transport was here. But the Warthog’s color scheme said otherwise. The plane was one of twelve fighters in the Ugandan People’s Defense Force Air Wing. The government forces had arrived, but it seemed they weren’t targeting the UFA soldiers. The ground in front of Knight was chewed up by the 30 mm Gatling-style cannon on the nose of the plane, and then the cannon fire was gone as the plane blasted by overhead. The gouge in the field was almost a foot deep, as if a tractor had just come by and ploughed a furrow. The dark line was less than a yard from Knight’s position in the grass. Bishop stood just to the other side of the line in the earth and looked at Knight. He had stopped firing his XM312-B.

“That was damned close,” he said. For once, his reserve of calm was shattered.

Knight stood and turned to look up at the A-10 as it banked in the sky for another attack run. “Deep Blue, we need that transport, now!”

Knight ignored the scattered AK-47 fire from further down the field. Many of the UFA soldiers had fled with the arrival of a UPDF plane, but the few left were still firing at Bishop and Knight. None of them had figured out they didn’t have the range to hit their targets. Knight looked at Bishop and had an idea.

“Stand still, Bish.”

Bishop did as he was asked without any query. Knight walked over to him and laid the long barrel of the EXACTO sniper rifle on the man’s shoulder from behind. With Bishop being almost a foot taller than Knight, the little Korean American didn’t need to even squat to get the right angle. He lined up the scope on the returning Warthog and took five quick breaths, then slowed his breathing to several shallow ones.

The Warthog was lined up perfectly, on an attack run for their position, and it opened up fire with the rotating cannon spitting out a line of fire at 60 rounds a second. The fire scoured a fast approaching line into the ground. If they didn’t move, they would be cut in half.

“Better know what you’re doing,” Bishop said. “And do it fast.”

FOUR

Walt Disney World Resort, FL

2 November, 1300 Hrs

“HOW THE HELL do I keep getting myself into these things?”

Jack Sigler, callsign: King, raced across the roof of a speeding, white public transit monorail train that ran around the amusement park on an elevated track. The man he was chasing was not going to get away.

It was an overcast day in what was supposed to be sunny Flor-ida. A high-sixties breeze buffeted King’s short-cropped hair. He missed his long shaggy hair, which he’d cut for an undercover mission in Paris and planned to grow out again. His loose-fitting black t-shirt with his hero Elvis’s TCB logo rippled across his muscular chest in the warm wind. The shirt was his favorite. That was King, too: taking care of business. The man he chased across the roof of the fast-moving monorail was dressed in his own pair of jeans and a lightweight hooded sweatshirt with a small Jansport backpack on his back. No more than twenty-five, King thought, the man had a nervous, sweaty look to him that had first tipped King off that something wasn’t right.

King had been vacationing in Florida with his girlfriend, CDC disease detective turned Endgame expert, Sara Fogg. Accompanying the pair was his adopted fourteen-year-old daughter, Fiona Lane, the lone survivor of an attack that took the lives of her grandmother, as well as the rest of the Siletz Reservation the pair called home.

As a former Delta operator and field leader of the ultra-secret Chess Team, King had met both women while on the job, and his work had severely affected each of their lives. Most of the time, Fiona was fine with her adopted family of soldiers and her life of danger, but sometimes she wanted to just be a kid. She had asked King shyly if they might take a trip to Disney sometime. After the recent events with his job in Paris, King and Sara had quickly decided it was something they all needed. A little time for each of them to be normal.

King and Sara had grown closer, too, so much so that she was naturally a part of the process now, when it came to decisions for Fiona. King wasn’t sure marriage was in the cards anytime soon—after all, he was a full-time soldier dealing with threats that affected America and the globe. The level of danger was more than could be coped with by most tactical military teams. But he also couldn’t deny that he felt empty on the downtime when Sara was out in the field battling microscopic enemies that all the bullets in the world couldn’t kill.

Their Disney vacation had started out fine, and King found himself really enjoying sleeping in each morning. The girls were impatient with him, though, so today they had headed to Epcot early and King followed when he woke. He was taking the monorail from the hotel when he had spotted the sweaty man with the backpack.

Seated at the front of the train, Sweaty had started fidgeting with his pack, and King, trained to notice such things, had started counting problems with the man. Inappropriate clothing—the sweatshirt was too hot for the day. A bag and hands in the bag fumbling with things unseen. Profuse nervous sweating and a glazed stare fixed directly ahead. King couldn’t believe it, but the man was exhibiting many of the symptoms of a suicide bomber. But he was a Caucasian man—not West Asian—so King had initially told himself that maybe he was being overly cautious. He glanced back behind him to check the rest of the monorail car for the other passengers, to see if anything or anyone else set off his security radar.

But when he turned back, he realized he never should have taken eyes off the subject. The man had stood, swept into the unlocked driver’s compartment at the front of the train and pulled an automatic pistol out of his pack.

That’s what I get for racial profiling.

King lunged from his seat, already in motion along the length of the car when Sweaty had conked the driver—an older man of at least sixty-five—over the head with the butt of the weapon. He was squatting and affixing a magnetic bomb to the dash of the train when King had nearly reached the door of the driver’s compartment.

Passengers screamed, as King eyed the bomb.

Sweaty had turned at the last second and with no hesitation had fired a sweeping arc of eight bullets through the Plexiglas windows and back into the passenger area of the compartment. King instinctively threw himself backward as he saw the gun arm coming up, almost in slow motion. The Plexiglas shattered as he fell to the floor, fragmenting and spraying large shards over him and a row of screaming Mouseketeers. He rolled to a crouch against the bottom of the door leading into the front compartment, and one of the passengers made eye contact with him. She pointed at the front of the train.

King rose and peered through the shattered window, quickly taking in the unconscious old man, the bomb on the dash and the open side window through which he could just see the leg of the sweaty man rising out of view.

The roof, he thought. Why do they always go for the roof on a moving train?

King stepped into the driver’s area and checked for a pulse on the old man. He was alive—just out cold. The bomb was unfamiliar to King, but clearly not a homemade job. Either Sweaty was a professional bomb-maker or he had obtained the device from one. King didn’t know much about the monorail trains at Disney, or about how they worked, but he had read some things about the park on the flight from Europe. He knew that the trains had a system that prevented them from colliding and shut them down in case of an emergency. He remembered that the system was called MAPO, after Mary Poppins. There were lights on the dash that would indicate when the MAPO system was engaged. But a small black device with a blinking red light had been magnetically attached to the dash next to the MAPO system, and King was dismayed to see that no MAPO lights were lit. The black device was clearly interfering with the safety system of the train.

King stared at the bomb and the black box. He didn’t know what to do. He knew how to disarm some simple, improvised explosive devices, but not a bomb of this complexity. He didn’t know if he could just remove either the bomb or the electronic device interfering with the MAPO system. Either attempt might set the bomb off early. He glanced at the speedometer and saw the train was doing nearly 50 mph, and then looked out the front of the train at the monorail track ahead. Eventually they would hit something or the bomb would go off, assuming it had some kind of internal timer.

Gonna have to bring Sweaty back, King thought, and climbed out the open window.

THE MAN RAN toward the back of the train. King chased after him, but made ready to hit the deck should the man turn and fire the 9 mm that he still clutched in one sweaty hand. But the man didn’t turn until King was nearly on top of him. Sweaty stopped on the roof of the last car and simply stood still. As King got up to him, the man turned and again brought the weapon up, but King was ready for him this time. He swatted the weapon from the man’s arm and it went flying into the air. King launched a right cross and hit the man on the chin. Sweaty staggered back and all the fight went out of him. Then the man brought his eyes up to look at King.

But his eyes didn’t stop on King’s face. He was looking over King’s right shoulder, up toward the front of the train, and King saw terror fill the man’s face. The man took a step back from King, turned and sprinted off the rear of the train, his torso slamming into the concrete edge of the raised rail and his body then flipping backward to plummet to the ground forty feet below.

King watched the sweaty man fall as if in slow motion, then he slowly turned around to see what the bomber had seen. He was expecting more men. Armed men. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his consciousness, he was even expecting some hideous creature from the unknown—King had certainly faced enough far-fetched exotic creatures as a part of his work, to make the possibility of a monstrous beast one he would consider.

What he wasn’t expecting was a Russian Mil Mi-24 helicopter gunship loaded with armaments on its wings and a Yak-B nose-mounted cannon pointed right at King. In fact, the massive Russian assault helicopter was probably further down on the list of things King’s subconscious could have imagined than the Loch Ness Monster.

FIVE

Fenris Kystby, Norway

ROOK’S ONLY RECOURSE to the shotgun was to rush the man holding it. If he could get close enough, fast enough, he might divert the angle to the barrel on the weapon.

As it turned out though, he needn’t have worried. When he got up close to the man, he watched in horror as the man pulled on the trigger, only to have nothing happen. Either Peder only had the one round in the damn thing or this man Rook hadn’t met yet didn’t know to cock the weapon for another shot. Rook batted the long weapon away from the man with his stick and thrust his right fist directly into the man’s unprotected throat. The sound the man made was unpleasant but satisfying. The man’s glazed blue Nordic eyes widened as he slumped to his knees.

Rook wasted no time; he sprinted past the other man that had set the barn on fire, and knelt down next to his fallen friend, only to find the old man dead. The blow Rook had seen him take caved in his skull. Rook stood and raced into the flaming barn with dark thoughts filling his head. He flipped the latches on the horse gates. Those animals not already aflame stampeded out of the barn and into the morning air. Unfortunately, the stall where he had been sleeping, and where he had hidden his Desert Eagle, under a pile of straw, was so full of intense flame that he couldn’t get close.

Rook turned to see a few villagers had followed him into the blaze. He barreled into them, knocking them into stalls and the flaming walls. Burning to death was a horrible way to die and he didn’t wish it on anyone, even his enemies, save for a few genocidal maniacs, but his desire to live trumped his guilt over laying a few Nordic nutjobs on the barbeque. For weeks, his thoughts had been a jumbled mess after the failure of his mission and the murder of his support team in Siberia. Now, his thoughts were as sharp as the edge of shattered fine crystal, focused on finding out why a bunch of seemingly normal Scandinavian villagers suddenly turned into a zombie horde. And whoever was responsible for that, and for the death of his friend, was going to find out what it’s like to be a punching bag or a gun range target. Whatever got the job done. Rook wasn’t picky.

The barn was a total loss. Rook bolted for the rear doorway and hoped that he might outrun the remaining villagers. But when he burst out of the door and into the fresh morning air, he knew it wasn’t going to go down the easy way. The villagers had circled the barn and were waiting for him. There were still twenty-five of them and he could see another group coming across the field toward him.

No clever responses this time; he simply crashed into the first villager he saw and snatched his weapon—a scythe-like farm implement. The blade was shorter than that of a scythe and there was no handle halfway down the shaft. Still, it would do. These people had been innocent victims of something. Mind control? A virus? He couldn’t be sure of anything. But it didn’t matter. Now they had killed his friend. If he didn’t hit back hard, he’d be next.

The gloves were off.

Rook swung the bladed weapon through the low fog that had settled. He cut or impaled any villager that got too close. Blood sprayed, coating everyone near the barn.

The horde was unfazed, pressing the attack.

Rook grunted as something slammed into his forearm, knocking the scythe from his grip. His left leg took a blow from behind him and he went down to one knee.

The mob swarmed in close, reaching for him.

He swung out backward, connecting solidly with whoever had hit him, but it was no use. They had him surrounded. Fists pummeled him on all sides, striking with raging hatred, steel and wood.

Rook kept punching and elbowing until the sheer weight of human bodies on top of him crushed him down to the ground.

SIX

Mount Kadam, Uganda

WHEN KNIGHT FIRED the shot, Bishop felt the jolt on his shoulder where the barrel of the weapon rested. He watched as the front of the A-10’s canopy splintered apart, and the pilot’s head exploded.

There was just one problem. The plane was still coming at them; the dead pilot’s finger was still depressing the trigger on the 30 mm cannon. Bullets tore into the ground, chewing a speeding path right to where Bishop stood with his muscular legs parted.

“Move!” Bishop was shouting and flying through the air to the right as Knight was already leaping to their left. The small Korean rolled in the tall grass and disappeared from Bishop’s sight as the gunfire raced past them. Bishop checked the sky to see that the trouble had not passed. The gunfire from the cannon had ripped past them through the tall grasses of the field, but the plane was crashing down toward their location now, and they were taking fire from the locals, who had closed the distance while Bishop and Knight had been distracted by the arrival of the A-10.

Before either man could move, one of the planes wing’s sheared off in a shower of sparks created by a barrage of bullets raining down from a second aircraft high above. Lacking lift provided by the wing, the plane nose-dived and spun to Earth, the freed wing crashing nearby, and each portion of the ruined vehicle exploding on impact.

Silhouetted by the rising plume of burning airplane fuel, Knight picked off the last few targets downfield as their rescuer, the curved-wing transport ship known as the Crescent, swept past directly overhead.

The Chess Team transport plane arced gracefully and came back toward Bishop’s position as he stood and watched. It kicked in its vertical-takeoff-and-landing (VTOL) thrusters, and slowed to a hover near Bishop. The craft then began to set down in the tall grass. The noise from its engines sounded low, like a hum, and the thrust of air was no stronger than a rough breeze.

The Crescent was Chess Team’s stealth troop transport. Its half-moon shape could hold several tons of equipment, but the team more frequently used the vehicle for fast and quiet troop transport. It had recently been retrofitted for the VTOL engines, because no airports near the team’s headquarters in New Hampshire had a long enough runway for it. The interior was fitted with quarters for 60 men on bunks, as well as the latest in tactical weaponry. Radar-absorbent black and gray material coated the entire vehicle, and the surface of the flying wing consisted of odd, lumpy rectangular shapes. The plane had top-notch electronic countermeasures and held a wide array of armaments for any occasion—including its own heavy rotary cannon, which had just dispatched the falling Warthog.

Bishop turned back to see a few figures fleeing in the distance and Knight casually strolling toward him, carrying his massive sniper rifle over a shoulder.

“I guess there’s not much left for me to do.” Bishop told him.

“Something tells me there’ll be plenty for you to do in Cairo.” Knight walked up to the lowered entrance ramp leading inside the stealth vehicle and Bishop followed, lugging the olive drab XM312-B.

Inside they greeted the pilots, former Nightstalkers men they knew only by their callsigns: Black One and Black Two. They strapped into chairs, waiting for the landing ramp to close, and the interior of the plane to pressurize, before contacting Deep Blue.

“We’re on board the Crescent,” Knight spoke into a microphone. “What’s going on in Cairo?”

Deep Blue’s face appeared on a monitor in front of Bish- op’s chair. His rugged good looks, crow’s feet, and balding hair reminded Bishop of Bruce Willis. “Forget Cairo. I’m sending you to the Asian theater now. It’s bad this time, gentlemen. It is very, very bad. Sending you some files right now. Read up. And if you aren’t strapped in tightly, do so. I’m ordering Black One to get you to China at the Crescent’s top speed. Deep Blue out.”

Knight looked at Bishop with a raised eyebrow. Then Bishop felt the thrust when the vehicle sped up and broke the sound barrier. The computer terminal beeped in front of them, and the screen came to life with satellite imagery and video files in separate windows. The scenes of destruction and devastation were nearly incomprehensible.

The worst part was that each window was labeled with a different city name: Karachi, Philadelphia, Seoul, São Paulo, Cairo, Los Angeles, Brisbane, New Delhi and Buenos Aires. The world was on fire.

SEVEN

Fenris Kystby, Norway

ROOK PUSHED AGAINST the mound of bodies covering him, but he couldn’t budge.

Couldn’t breathe, either.

Fucking hell, if I go like this, it won’t matter if I go to Heaven or Hell. There isn’t an angel or demon that won’t mock me about this. God is probably getting a good chuckle out of this.

He pushed again, but without oxygen, his muscles continued to weaken.

Then he felt the weight of bodies begin to lift off him. He heard grunting noises and shouts of pain. Then more weight shifted off him. He was lying face down on the ground, battered and bloody, with several of the villagers still on top of him and punching, clawing and poking at him. Before he couldn’t move at all, but now, with the shift in weight above him, as the grunting and shouting continued, he was able to slide his arms under his broad chest. He pulled his knees up slowly to his chest and planted his toes down into the soil.

Then, with a mighty heave, he launched himself up, throwing off the last few bodies that were dog-piled on top of him. As those few villagers hit the ground—three men and two women—Rook looked around to see what was happening. The barn was still burning. The sun had pierced through the fog of the morning and lit the scene in blinding detail. A woman with long dark hair was taking it to the remaining villagers. She was throwing side and high kicks like a karate champ, and punching and gouging throats whenever they came within her reach. She moved like liquid mercury, melting from one fight, rolling and flipping to another, as if the entire battle were one long choreographed dance for which she had memorized the moves.

And she was stunningly beautiful.

This woman had clearly come to Rook’s rescue, but he had no idea who she was. He wasn’t about to waste the opportunity though. He leapt back into the fight, grabbing the two nearby village women by their necks with his huge hands and knocking their heads together, then punching a tall, gangly man in the solar plexus. He found a second man rushing in and drove his foot into the man’s groin, lifting the now squealing bastard right off the ground with the force of the kick.

Ten villagers still stood, and another few were just staggering back to their feet, when something odd happened. The fight abruptly went out of them. Like a flock of birds communicating with each other through some unknown means, all of the conscious villagers turned as one and started slowly walking away from the battle and back toward the town. Rook’s unknown res-cuer kicked a few of the people as they were departing before she stopped and looked in confusion as the people calmly walked away from the fight.

A few others that had been lying on the ground staggered to their feet and limped back toward the town without a word.

Rook was bewildered. “The hell?”

The woman stood silently looking after the departing villagers. She was shorter than Rook, but in great shape. She wore black fleece tights, a loose-fitting gray sweatshirt and dark brown, hybrid, cross-training hiking boots. As if she had been out for a casual morning run when she had come across thirty bloodthirsty villagers dog-piling on him. But he didn’t buy it. Her fighting skills were world class.

Then she turned to face him and he recognized her.

“Asya,” he said.

She simply nodded at him. Once. Curt. Very Russian.

He had last seen her when he had put ashore in Norway. Two men had held her captive and beaten her on the boat before Rook had boarded. At first, he told himself it was none of his business—he had been trying to disappear, after all. When he had finally had enough of her whimpered cries in the hold, he had fought the two men and sent them both overboard into the frigid Barents Sea. Then he had released her from the hold. They had gone their separate ways when Maksim Dashkov, the captain of the fishing trawler Songbird, had used a small inflatable rowboat to get them ashore.

Rook looked at the woman and once again felt the suspicious feeling that he knew her from somewhere. He had felt the same thing when they first spoke on the boat. The bruises on her face had mostly healed. Her dark brown eyes revealed nothing. He peered at her more intently.

“What is it, Stanislav?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My spider-sense is tingling,” he grunted.

“Your what? I do not understand.”

“Never mind. Thank you for saving me back there.”

“It is only proper I repay you for saving me on the Songbird.”

“Yes, it is. But your timing is...convenient,” Rook hadn’t taken his eyes off her. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but now all the alarms were going off in his head. He felt that this woman was familiar. She was a serious badass, and now he questioned how she could have ended up in that situation on board the boat, tied up by two worthless thugs. And then, weeks later, after heading off in the opposite direction, here she was, just in time to bail him out.

“Why are you here, Asya? Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful for the rescue, but a lot of weird shit has been going down and you showing up out of the blue is a bit suspicious.”

“I understand,” she looked him in the eyes, and he felt she was about to level with him. “Those men that had me on the boat. I do not know who they were. But I have learned that they also took my parents. I do not know why. I thought I might ask you to help me locate them. It took me awhile to find you.”

“Uh-huh. And your fighting skills?”

“My father trained me. He was always a big fan of the ballet and the martial arts.”

Rook still kept his eyes on her. He wasn’t sure about the rest of her story, but he did believe that her parents had been taken. He could see the pain in her eyes when she had spoken about it.

“What kind of work does your father do? Is he a soldier? A spy?”

She looked aghast. “No. Nothing like that. He works for an electric utility company.”

“And men kidnapped him and your mother? And you want my help to rescue them?”

“Yes.” She cast her eyes down, suspecting his answer would be negative.

“I’m sorry, Asya. You saw those nutbags from the village.”

“Nutbags, Stanislav?” Asya asked with a quizzical eyebrow raised high on her forehead.

Damnit, Rook thought. He’d slipped back into his normal American accent. Fuck it. Too late now.

He let out a sigh and continued. “It was like they were possessed. I need to get to the bottom of this mess.” He felt bad telling her he couldn’t help, but he had put off getting in touch with the rest of his team for too long. They would be wondering what had happened to him after Siberia. It was time to stop feeling sorry for himself and the people who had died, his team in Russia and Peder.

“I need to bury my friend and then get to the nearest phone. I have some other...friends who need to know about what’s going on here.” He started to turn and walk away from her, waiting to see what would happen next. Surely, she wouldn’t let him just go. There would be more to the story, he could feel it.

“Wait,” she grabbed his arm. “If I come with you, and help to get to the bottom of this mess, as you say? Then you will help me?”

EIGHT

Above Lake Michigan, Chicago, USA

3 November, 0100 Hrs

TOM DUNCAN SAT in the troop area of the stealth-modified MH-60 Black Hawk helicopter looking at a small array of computer screens that showed the chaos around the globe.

He was monitoring the situation, as well as orchestrating the retrieval of his various field personnel—King, Knight and Bishop—to combat the phenomenon. One of his other field agents, Rook, had been missing in action for some time, although some conflicting reports placed him in the northern part of Russia or Norway. The fifth member of the field team, Queen, was in that region looking for the man.

As the de facto leader and dispatcher of Chess Team, Duncan was known as Deep Blue, and his identity was a closely guarded secret from all those not part of his team. Only those members of his growing organization, which he had recently christened Endgame, were privy to the fact that Tom Duncan, former President of the United States of America, was now a global mover and shaker, in control of his own former Delta team of commandos that could be sent anywhere around the world on a moment’s notice.

The formation of the team had been Duncan’s idea when he was president. Along with Domenick Boucher at CIA, and General Michael Keasling at Fort Bragg, Duncan had created a crack team that could deal with terrorists the world over. But then a strange thing happened. More and more frequently, the team had needed to combat unusual threats, starting with a genetics company led by a megalomaniac that had genetically altered soldiers and animals with the blood of the recently discovered Lernian Hydra. Then there had been an outbreak of the Brugada virus, which led to the discovery of a race of Neanderthal-like creatures in Vietnam. Most recently, the team had battled golems and other inanimate objects—statues, crystals, skeletons, even Stonehenge—imbued temporarily with life.

Duncan’s decision the previous year to allow an upstart senator to smear his name was part of a longer-range plan of Duncan’s to step down from the presidency and out of the spotlight—so he could devote more time to Chess Team and their efforts to battle all manner of threats worldwide.

The present threat of city-devouring energy domes around the world most certainly qualified as a Chess Team-level threat. The only problem was the team was scattered. With Rook AWOL and Queen on a personal mission to find him, he had already been down two bodies when the new threat emerged.

King was on leave down in Florida; Knight and Bishop were on a mission in Uganda that he had been forced to abandon. The team was stretched too thin. He was glad he had hired a few more people to act as occasional field personnel and support—his Black team, as well as another group to act as security and assistants at the team’s base of operations in the White Mountains of New Hampshire—the White team.

The continuation of the Chess theme was satisfying, but it was really more a matter of logistics. The team needed support. Their budget came from one of the Pentagon’s fabled black budgets and was buried so deeply in red tape that no one would be able to discover it, even if they knew to look for it. Only Keasling and Boucher were still directly working with the military. But others were required for security at Endgame’s headquarters, to fly Chess Team’s transport ship the Crescent and the Black Hawk he pres-ently rode in, as well as mechanics, weapons experts, scientists and computer experts like Lewis Aleman—who had been a part of the group since the beginning—and even a few spies. Over all, Endgame was shaping up nicely.

But even with the additional team members, this current threat necessitated Duncan getting out into the field himself.

“Two minutes to drop point, sir,” Black Three, the pilot, turned to address Duncan. “Better suit up.”

“Thanks.” Duncan couldn’t go into the field without disguising his identity. His face was known, far and wide, as a previous president. And the current president, his former VP, would not take too kindly to the discovery of a covert special ops team operating on US soil. Duncan felt bad for deceiving the man, but the President not knowing provided him with a buffer of not just plausible deniability, but actual deniability, and provided Endgame the freedom to act while others were slowed by politics, egos and laws.

As Deep Blue, Duncan had initially served the team as their satellite eyes in the sky, providing intelligence through his extensive use of computers and communications equipment. Aleman could cover some of those duties from New Hampshire now, but Duncan still needed to be as connected as possible. He wore a black tactical suit and donned what looked like a futuristic motorcycle helmet with a tinted faceplate. He connected its cable to a small rectangular unit on his shoulder, and the faceplate’s display came alive inside the helmet. The same display from the computer monitor on the Black Hawk was now on one-half of the inside of his faceplate.

A new technology from a small Korean firm, he had managed to get his hands on an experimental prototype of the helmet. With satellite uplink, he was able to be in communication with Endgame at the base in New Hampshire, as well as with the helicopter pilot. He also had access to all manner of computing power, which ran off servers deep underground at Endgame HQ. He could even tap into the Pentagon from the small keypad on his left forearm if need be. Deep Blue was now officially mobile.

As he stood from his chair in the tight confines of the Black Hawk’s hold, preparing to gather his weapons, a buzzing ringtone sounded in his ear. He depressed a button on his forearm keypad and accepted the call.

“Ale, what is it? I’m about to go.”

“Deep Blue is going to want to take this call. I’m patching it over from Bragg for you.” Lewis Aleman sounded amused. Duncan couldn’t think of a single reason for that as he took the call.

“This is Deep Blue. Go ahead.”

“Hey Boss. Rook here.”

Duncan was stunned. Rook had been missing for months, and they had received no contact from him. Duncan wasn’t even sure whether Rook was alive after his last mission in Siberia had gone south and all the support members had been killed. “Rook! Where the hell are you? Are you all right?”

“Well, I’m alive. I’m at a small town in Norway called Fenris Kystby.”

Deep Blue had two lists with Rook’s name on it. The first was a list of questions. The second was a list of harsh language to use in the event that Rook turned up alive. But there wasn’t time to berate the man for going AWOL. “We could really use you right now.”

“Actually, I’m kind of up to my neck in something here and was hoping for some backup of my own. It’s bad, boss. Mind control type stuff. Killing hordes. Real nasty shit.”

Deep Blue stayed silent for a moment, torn between relief that Rook was alive and anger that the man had the balls to request resources as though he’d been on a mission. “Just tell me you were a prisoner,” he said.

“Look, I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch,” Rook said, a touch of impatience in his voice, “but I really could use some support over here. People are dying.”

Deep Blue sighed, pushing aside his mixed feelings. “Understood. But our resources are tapped.”

“Tapped?” Rook said. “You’ve got every asset in the world’s most advanced military at your command.”

“And you’ve been gone for a while,” Deep Blue countered. “Trust me. We’re tapped. I’ll get someone to your location as soon as possible.”

“Guess that will have to be good enough,” Rook said.

“If I had a choice—” Deep Blue started.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Good, and Rook, stay in touch this time.”

“Copy that.”

“Deep Blue out.”

Duncan shook his head. The man goes off the radar for months and turns up in Norway with the Village of the Damned. Figures. Well, one problem at a time.

Black Three nodded to Duncan, and then the side cargo door to the Black Hawk helicopter opened. Duncan looked down to the blinking lights on the roof of the John Hancock building under him. Far below that, the rest of Chicago was aglow as a dome of energy sat in the heart of the Magnificent Mile.

“After I’m gone, get out of here, Three. I have another transport coming for evac.”

“Roger,” the pilot said. “Good luck, Sir.”

“Thanks, we’ll need it.”

Deep Blue deactivated the heads-up display on his faceplate, checked the altimeter on his wrist and jumped out of the helicopter to freefall a thousand feet through the Chicago night sky.

NINE

Olderdalen, Norway

3 November, 0700 Hrs

ROOK PRESSED THE End button on the phone—a cell phone he had paid to borrow from a small storekeeper in the nearest town south of Fenris Kystby. He stepped out of the shop to the quiet street where Asya waited for him by Peder’s battered car, which they had used to drive the hour south.

The sky had gone overcast with a dark, heavy cloud cover. The brittle Norwegian coastal breeze ripped into him. He noticed that Asya seemed less affected by it. He supposed that was from her Russian upbringing. He himself was from New Hampshire, and he was used to both the cold and the damp sea air, but this far north in Norway was different from home. He was almost a full 30 degrees of latitude north of the chilly New England farm he knew. They were above the Arctic Circle, and Rook’s body and his emotions had taken a battering over the last few weeks. He figured it was okay to admit to himself that he was cold.

“Your friend? He will send help?” Asya seemed impatient.

“Yeah. As soon as he can, someone will be here.” Rook saw that she wasn’t looking at him but over his shoulder and behind him as he spoke.

He turned quickly to see a long-legged blonde woman strutting up to him. She wore a fleece headband that covered her ears and the scarring on her forehead—the only blemish to an otherwise sensationally gorgeous woman—the woman Rook had begun to fall in love with: Zelda Baker, also known as—

“Queen.” Rook whispered her name, then smiled wide. “Sonovabitch, that was fast!” Rook was stunned to see anyone from his team so quickly after Deep Blue’s brusque brush-off.

Then she drove her right fist into his jaw, squatting slightly and using the thrust from her legs as she came back up to throw her whole weight into the blow. Rook rocked back off his feet and into the air, flying backward to slam his head against the rear window of the old Two Series Volvo, shattering it. He slid down to the pavement amidst the sprinkling of safety glass cubes, landing on his ass with a thump.

Queen looked furious. Long blonde hair streamed behind her in the Arctic air. Her cheeks were a fierce red and her eyes were filled with anger. Rook understood immediately what it meant. He was both thrilled and terrified. Thrilled because it was instantly clear to him that she had come to care for him the same way her had for her, but he was also afraid that she might have construed his recent unauthorized departure from the team as his premature death. She might never forgive him for leaving and causing her to worry so.

Unfortunately, Rook was so taken by the sight of Queen and by the power of the blow she had landed on him, that he completely forgot his companion.

Asya didn’t know Queen at all and had come to a natural conclusion—only it was the wrong one. She leapt to Rook’s defense.

As Rook tried to stand up, he saw Asya’s black clad leg fly through the air as she executed a perfect flying sidekick. Her foot connected with Queen’s face, knocking the woman back, but she managed to keep her feet. Asya landed in front of Queen and both women took a long look at each other, sizing up their opponent before the real fight started.

Rook could see what was about to happen, but his head still hurt from the impact with the Volvo—to say nothing of the impact with Queen’s right cross. His body was battered and beaten from the earlier fight with the villagers and his shoulder was still brutalized from events even before that fight. He could barely move. And he couldn’t get a breath into his lungs fast enough to call out a ceasefire.

Large flakes of snow, lumped together into bold shapes, fell from the sky. A single flake fell between the women, striking the ground with a barely audible tick.

The two women ran at each other.

TEN

Shanghai, China

3 November, 1400 Hrs

THEIR ORIGINAL DESTINATION had been Beijing, but in the time it took for Knight and Bishop to get to China—even at supersonic speed—the field of battle had changed again. Right now, all they had to go on was that giant globes of energy and lightning were randomly appearing in different population centers around the globe. In some cases, the sphere would be present only a short time. In others, it would stay long enough to disgorge a payload of creatures that were vicious and fast. The creatures could be killed, but it was very difficult to do so. Beyond those few facts, Knight and Bishop were going in blind.

On their way to Beijing, the pilot, callsign: Black One, had been informed that the portal that had opened in the Forbidden City had closed unexpectedly, without sending any of the killing creatures into the population of 20 million. Unfortunately, the Forbidden City, the former imperial palace dating from the Ming Dynasty, was carved from the face of the Earth by the devastating effects of the globe’s collapse, just as other cities had been ravaged. But before the Crescent could be set to a new course, reports of another globe effect in nearby Shanghai had come in through Lewis Aleman, back at Endgame HQ.

News of the giant energy globes had spread rapidly around the world, so when this new globe had begun to appear in Shanghai, people had fled in terror on foot, in cars and on bicycle—by whatever means they had available to them. The People’s Liberation Army had yet to arrive on the scene and even local law enforcement had bailed at the sight of the giant white and yellow crackling sphere.

So it was in relative quiet that Knight and Bishop approached their target. The Crescent dropped them on the street before taking to the skies again with its VTOL thrusters and disappearing. A few injured people lay on the sidewalks and in the middle of the road, but most were still moving away from the site, even if at a crawl. Bishop and Knight might have stopped to help the people, but their first priority was to guard the greater population against the creatures that sometimes came out of the energy globes.

Lightning blasted from the sphere ahead of them, arcing upward to strike the tops and sides of tall concrete, steel and glass skyscrapers. As Bishop and Knight approached the thing, debris from the ruined buildings rained down while streaks of lightning performed a spastic dance accentuated by the booming of thunder. Choreographed chaos.

“Endgame, this is Knight. As far as I can tell, the lightning strikes are completely random. They don’t seem to be targeting us or anything in particular.”

“Copy that, Knight. We’ve already had reports from Egypt that weapons fire into the sphere doesn’t do a damn thing, so hold your fire. If a tank can’t stop it, neither can you.” Lewis Aleman sounded tired and jittery on the small earphone in Knight’s ear. If Bishop was listening in, he made no indication of it. “Also, don’t get too close to the thing. When they blink out, they take everything with them. Remember, you’re there to fight anything that might come out of the sphere. We have reports from a Ranger, whose brother was in LA, that the things are like milky white pumas. They’re damn fast, but initial reports suggest they only go after fleeing prey. So set up somewhere and be ready. If your globe closes, we’ll get the Crescent back to deliver you to another hotspot.”

“Understood,” Knight said. He switched off the microphone on the side of his face and turned to Bishop. “Where do you think?”

Bishop scanned the scene. They were in a section of the city called The Bund. The river was to their right and a huge multi-lane road with abandoned cars was to their left. HSBC Bank and the Customs House, with its distinctive clock tower, were across the asphalt. The sphere was further up Zhongshan Road. The sun still hung overhead, but in a few hours, bright neon lights and spotlights would illuminate everything. The glow from the crackling sphere, which Bishop judged to be about 60 feet in diameter, washed out the daylight with an intensity that made him squint.

“That clock tower looks to me like a good spot for you. I’m just gonna walk along the river here and get closer.”

“Bish,” Knight looked concerned as he stared up at the larger man. “There’s no cover along the river. If those things come out…”

“If I need to, I’ll bail into the water. Let’s get it done.”

Without another word, Knight sprinted across the now empty multi-lane road, carrying his new favorite toy—the EXACTO rifle—strapped across his back. He wondered, as he made his way across the road to the large bank, whether this road had ever been deserted of people since its construction. He figured it hadn’t. He knew Shanghai had something like 24 million people, and it had always been a crowded place.

Knight made his way into the Customs House building expecting to find cowering civilians or possibly even morons still attempting to carry out a normal day’s work despite the inconvenience of a gigantic electrical ball of hellfire just down the road. Instead, he found the place completely deserted. As far as he knew, the energy effect had only started in Shanghai about thirty minutes previously. He was stunned that the Chinese had managed to evacuate the area so thoroughly in such a short time.

As he made his way into the elevator to get to the roof, Knight reflected on the fact that as the only Korean American member of Chess Team, he was their de facto Pacific Rim agent, and yet he had rarely been to China. The last time was to one of China’s new ghost cities, Shenhuang. That hadn’t been a fun mission. Although one positive thing had come from it: his new girlfriend, Anna Beck. She had helped the team once before the Shenhuang mission, and as callsign: Black Zero had now become one of Deep Blue’s right-hand assistants back in New Hampshire. Although things were going well with Beck, he turned his mind away from her, getting his head in the game.

Out on the roof, he made his way to the huge clock tower’s stairway. The structure was nearly 300 feet tall. The perfect vantage point. But as he got closer to the top of the staircase, Knight heard the distinctive boom-boom-boom of Bishop’s XM312-B blasting away.

He was too late.

ELEVEN

Walt Disney World Resort, FL

2 November, 1330 Hrs

FIRST THE CRAZY sweaty bomber on the monorail. Then the guy had done a swimmer off the rear of the train, splattering himself on the concrete support strut. King didn’t like killing people (or seeing them killed) unnecessarily. He hadn’t intended to kill the sweaty man; he only wanted to question him. Now he had turned and seen the Russian gunship pointing its nose cannon down King’s throat.

For a moment, King hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to do or how to react. Why in hell was there was a massive Russian helicopter hovering over Disney World? The decision was made for him. The massive helicopter turned, so its side faced King, no longer maintaining its hover over the speeding monorail train, instead letting the train pass beneath it and bringing King right up to the vehicle.

King spotted a bright, neon-yellow chess piece hastily spray-painted on the sidewall of the fuselage—a King piece. The picture was nearly three feet tall, and King could see the drips where the paint had bled before drying. The side door was open, and in it was a crouched US Army Ranger, who was waving King to approach the helicopter—as if he had a choice with the train carrying him to it.

The picture came clear immediately for King. He sprinted along the rooftops of the monorail cars to the helicopter and nimbly leapt into the open cargo door, rolling and hitting the closed side door on the other side of the craft. The Ranger passed him a set of headphones, which he donned. The man then started to close the open door as King seated the headset on his ears.

“Talk to me,” King said.

“You’re desperately needed, sir. We were told to paint that symbol outside and pick you up.” The Ranger seemed apologetic as he secured the door. He was dressed in desert-style battle dress uniform, with a distinctive gold and black RANGER tab on one shoulder and a green and blue shield patch with a red lightning bolt on the other. King recognized it as the insignia for the 75th Ranger Regiment. The man’s nametape said ORTIZ.

“I was kind of in the middle of something, Ortiz. There’s a bomb on that train.”

“We know, sir.” Ortiz turned and smiled at King. “Everybody on board has a cell phone. They flooded the local police dispatcher with calls. We overheard. We were given very specific orders almost immediately to drop a small EMP device on the roof of the train. As soon as we’re out of range, we’ll set it off. It’ll stop the bomb and bring the train to a halt as well.”

King eased into a chair and strapped in. The helicopter continued its ascent and laid on some speed. “Nice work. You wanna tell me why I had to nearly crap my pants at the sight of a Russian bird over Disney?”

The Ranger laughed. “We use this thing for training scenarios up at Camp Blanding, but we were in the area doing a meet-and-greet at the Naval Air Warfare Center in Orlando. We were the nearest warm bodies when General Keasling needed someone to high-tail it over to get you.”

King chuckled too, now that his heart wasn’t in his throat any more. “Well let me tell you: it’s no fun being on the business end of that big-ass cannon.”

“No sir, I wouldn’t imagine it would be.”

“And where am I heading?” King asked, closing his eyes and wondering how he would explain this to Sara and Fiona.

“Atlanta.”

KING’S MOOD GREW dark, matching the night sky. He was strapped into the second seat of a brand-new Air Force F-16V Fighting Falcon jet, traveling at Mach 2, and thinking over how quickly his vacation had been ruined. It had turned out that the threat in Atlanta ended before King even got there. He’d been in touch with Deep Blue, whom he’d be joining in Chicago. Deep Blue had filled him in on the situation, and also informed him that the FBI had the rest of the sweaty bomber’s compatriots in custody. Sara and Fiona were being transported to Endgame HQ in New Hampshire, and King had been squeezed like a sardine into the newest variant of the Air Force’s most versatile fighter, the F-16.

This version of the jet had a highly modified canopy that could slide back along the fuselage when desired, or come loose entirely when the ejection seats were activated. It was designed for exactly the purpose it was being used for this night—to get a soldier into a specific location as quickly as possible. When ejecting only the passenger, the bulbous canopy would retract and then move back into the closed position. In an emergency, the translucent shell would explode away from the aircraft as in a traditional ejection scenario and both seats could be launched out of the jet. King had commented on the experimental canopy and the pilot had gleefully replied, “Yes, sir. But it comes with a shit ton more head room.” King could see what the man meant. The glass of the canopy was nearly a foot above the top of the pilot’s helmet. In other F-16 variants that King had seen, the pilot chair was reclined so the pilot wouldn’t hit his head on the canopy.

Now past 1:00 a.m. and over Chicago, the latest city besieged by the threat of the energy domes, King mentally readied himself for what would likely be one hell of a fight. The pilot indicated that he had one minute until ejection. King took several slow breaths preparing for the insanity when the jet would swoop low, slow down and retract its canopy, before firing King higher into the air in a rocket-propelled ejection seat. The jet would swoop away, closing its canopy, and King would parachute down into the mayhem on the nocturnal streets of Chicago. And hopefully the G-forces wouldn’t snap his neck. At least that was the plan. It had never been done before. King was going to be the first.

King was no novice to parachute jumps, but he wasn’t too fond of ejection seats. He had trained on them, of course, but he really wasn’t keen on getting flung from one at night above a city full of tall buildings with radio antennas and other communications spires on top of them.

He glanced out the canopy as the F-16 banked and took in the glowing carnage across the river, north of the Loop. The ball of energy was huge. It ate into the small Water Tower Park, where King had had a chocolate Ghirardelli’s shake the last time he had been in the city. It chewed into buildings on all sides and hurled lightning bolts that were spraying glass and concrete shards down on the soldiers trying to keep a perimeter around the sphere. They seemed to be there more for holding back the crowd of onlookers that had gathered at the disturbance than for facing off against the ball of hellish light. That fit with what King had learned so far. Not much seemed to faze the energy balls; it was their cargo you had to watch out for the most, but those could at least be battled, even though they were supposed to be deadly fast.

As King watched, a blast of lightning ripped skyward from the glowing yellow energy dome, crunching hard into the F-16. King felt the jolt as a huge thunderous roar filled his ears. Electricity arced along the wing of the plane. He spoke to the pilot as the plane took a sharp dip sideways and King’s stomach lurched into his chest.

“Are we okay, Simmons?”

No response.

King reached forward and shook the pilot from behind, but the way the man’s neck lolled, King could see he was dead. The plane continued to plummet toward the energy fiasco below, as King reached for the ejection lever, which would pop the canopy as opposed to the computer-controlled retraction Simmons was supposed to perform. Both of them would launch into the sky, instead of just King.

King pulled the lever beside his chair and nothing happened.

“Just not fair.”

TWELVE

Endgame Headquarters, White Mountains, NH

3 November, 0200 Hrs

LEWIS ALEMAN WAS barely keeping up with the outbreaks of the energy domes around the world. He sat reclined in the central computer room, in Deep Blue’s specially designed chair. The thing reminded him of a dentist’s chair, if it had been made by Craftmatic, like an adjustable bed. It could rotate and even tilt so he could take in any view of the forty oversized flat-screen monitors that lined the walls of the room, or the giant 12-foot-wide monitor that filled one entire wall.

The chair itself was a comfortable memory-foam affair with ergonomic armrests and a keyboard that had been split, so that one half was at the front of his left armrest and the other was at the front of the right one. On his hands he wore special computing gloves that allowed him to not only type, but which also acted like a mouse when he pointed and moved his fingers. The gloves had built-in neon blue LED lights, and he couldn’t put them on without thinking of the TRON films. He could toggle any of the room’s screens to his control and could zoom in and out with a slight movement of one hand. Strange, Aleman had thought, until he’d had a chance to get used to it. Now he loved it and couldn’t imagine doing without it. The entire setup allowed Deep Blue to network into several satellites simultaneously, and to provide computer support for the field team. Of course, with Deep Blue in the field, much of that role fell to Aleman.

“That’ll be King’s plane coming into Chicago,” George Pierce said from across the room, running a nervous hand through his black curly hair.

Aleman looked first at Pierce, and then up at a monitor near the corner of the room. This screen showed the view from Deep Blue’s faceplate—the scene in Chicago, lit up as bright as day by the harsh glow of the energy signature. Aleman reached a finger on his right hand forward and toggled the view to the main screen in the densely packed computer room.

In the distance, between skyscrapers, an F-16 could be seen coming toward the viewer. Deep Blue had been on the ground for a few minutes now, and Aleman had been keeping close tabs on the former president’s screen.

He knew Tom Duncan well, and considered him a close friend, but it was still hard not to think of him as “Mr. President” or “Deep Blue.” In either case, Aleman was concerned that his friend might be getting a little old to be out in the field. Then there was the whole secret identity thing. Aleman had helped design Duncan’s field helmet that would conceal his identity as the former president while allowing him to remain as connected to the Internet and communications arrays as any mobile human being could hope to be.

“Yeah, looks like it. George, any luck on the research?”

“Nothing yet. I’ll keep at it.” George Pierce was a former professor of archeology and a lover of myth and folklore. As King’s friend and the man who had been engaged to Julie, King’s deceased sister, Pierce had gotten involved with Chess Team when they had taken down a corrupt genetics firm that was tinkering with human regeneration. Since then, he had earned a place on the team as a constantly useful researcher. At first he had tried to live two lives—that of a professor and that of an asset for the team. Eventually, Deep Blue offered Pierce a full-time position with the Endgame organization.

Pierce had been feverishly working all night to find some mention of the energy domes in history, myth or folklore. He figured it stood to reason that the phenomenon was either something scientifically produced or something that would have affected the planet before. Aleman was looking for the science angle and Pierce was in charge of the historical one.

Both men looked up as Sara Fogg entered the room with Matt Carrack, callsign: White Zero. Fogg had the confident look and high cheekbones of a model, but kept her short black pixie hair messy and a glint of good humor in her eyes. Carrack was the head of security at the base, and after a recent security incident, had been promoted to the position of White Zero—Deep Blue’s main assistant at the New Hampshire headquarters. Fogg was dressed in snug jeans and a tight Mickey Mouse t-shirt. Carrack wore all-black military battle dress uniform, and was armed with a 9 mm Beretta in a low-slung quick-draw harness on his leg.

“Nice outfit, Sara” George started.

“Shut it, you. The t-shirt was King’s idea of a joke.” Fogg smiled at Pierce. “What’s going on? Is he okay?” The two of them had become quite close over the last few months, with both King and their connection to the team as civilians bonding them.

“He’s just getting to Chicago,” he pointed to the shaky image on the main view-screen on the wall. “Where’s Fiona?”

“Just put her to bed. Long day of ruined vacations and transit at Air Force bases.”

Pierce winced, knowing full well how the last two attempts at a vacation with King had turned out for her.

Carrack stepped over to a free computer terminal and sat down to flick through screens of all the currently affected cities. Fogg looked up at the approaching F-16 on the screen.

“Where are the others?” Carrack asked.

“Deep Blue is on the ground in Chicago; Bishop and Knight in Shanghai,” Aleman responded, as his hands flew over the split keyboard.

“And Queen?” Carrack asked calmly as he flipped through video footage of city after city affected by the strange glowing disturbances.

“No idea,” Aleman turned and smiled at Carrack, “But Rook is back on the grid.”

Carrack turned to look at Aleman, across the room. “No shit?”

“Where is he?” Fogg asked, her attention diverted from the main screen momentarily, as the F-16 got closer to Deep Blue’s location and he kept his eyes (and therefore the image on the main screen) on the approaching plane.

“Norway,” Aleman said. “With another problem waiting for us once we finish dealing with this one.” He sounded tired. Fogg came over and laid her hand on his shoulder.

“You holding up, Lewis?”

“I’ll manage, I—”

“Holy shit!” Pierce stood up in his chair and stared at the main screen. All eyes in the room went to it as the lightning bolt reached skyward to stab at the approaching F-16. Sparks flew from the chassis of the jet and arced in a wide swath to a nearby building before dissipating.

Deep Blue zoomed his camera view in on the plane, as Carrack, Aleman and Fogg watched in horrified silence from their remote location.

Aleman toggled Deep Blue’s channel onto the room’s loudspeaker.

King, Deep Blue here. You okay? King? Talk to me buddy.

The view zoomed in as the wounded plane dipped and tilted wildly. Tracking software in the helmet kept the view on the vehicle. As the camera got in closer, they could see King moving in the second seat of the plane, but the pilot wasn’t moving at all.

“Oh God,” Fogg said.

King was attempting to climb over the top of the pilot’s seat and the dead pilot, head first, squeezing between the pilot’s headrest and the canopy.

His comms must be out. C’mon, King. Punch out of there. C’mon…

As Deep Blue’s voice began to trail off, Fogg and the others watched, horrorstruck, as the plane dipped further and headed for a hard smackdown in the middle of Chicago.

Just then, the canopy blew off the top of the plane and the pilot’s seat ejected, with the pilot still strapped in it, and with King, in a flight suit and leaning over the top of the chair, clutching the dead pilot’s knees for dear life. The ejecting seat rocketed out of the diving F-16. The plane rolled so it was perpendicular with the oncoming ground and the surging energy sphere when the seat shot out, the port wing of the plane pointing straight down.

Aleman understood what it meant as soon as he saw the canopy launch off. “Oh no!”

The ejection seat, with King precariously clinging to its passenger, shot horizontally across the concrete canyon between skyscrapers, heading right for one of the upper floors of the Park Hyatt building, thirty feet away, with the growling energy dome 800 feet below it.

THIRTEEN

Olderdalen, Norway

ROOK WAS STUNNED as Asya held her own against Queen.

Blow for blow, block for block, kick for kick, the small, lithe dark-haired woman was going up against Queen—the biggest hand-to-hand bad ass that Rook had ever seen in any branch of the military. And while Rook loved to watch Queen go to work with her hands, he had to admit to himself that Asya was going about it with more efficiency and a ballet-like dexterity that was awe-inspiring. He’d even noticed Queen giving the little woman an approving look a time or two as they huffed and grunted while trying to rip each other apart.

Initially, Rook feared for Asya’s life in a fight between the two, but once he saw how deftly she could block and parry Queen’s attacks, his concern for her life left him, and he struggled to stand against the battered Volvo so he could get a better view of what was sure to be an epic fight.

As the snow continued to fall, laying a quick blanket of white on the small town street, Queen danced in between parked cars, and launched a flying sidekick at Asya. The small Russian woman nimbly ducked and rolled in the snow. As Queen was landing on the sidewalk, Asya launched a similar kick at Queen’s spine. But Zelda Baker was no easy chump when it came to fighting. She went for the dirty moves herself, and therefore expected them too. She twisted at the last second and caught Asya’s ankle in her armpit, then pivoted in the slippery snow, using Asya’s momentum to swing the short, dark-haired woman against the side of the general store. The thud was devastatingly loud and it shook a cloud of dust out from between the wooden siding.

Queen dropped Asya’s leg and stepped away from the impact. She was whirling back to ensure her opponent was finished when Asya sprang up from the ground, the top of her head catching Queen under the jaw, and knocking the latter’s head back until she lost her balance and slammed into the same car Rook had hit earlier. Before she could recover, and while her body was rebounding off the car, Asya landed a fierce left to the middle of Queen’s face, her nose very audibly breaking, and blood spattering across her porcelain face.

Instead of slowing her down, the injury seemed to reinvigorate the former Delta woman. Queen dropped low and lunged forward with both fists, driving the air from Asya in a loud belch-like burst, as the fists made contact with Asya’s middle. Queen followed through with a forearm to the side of Asya’s face, driving the smaller woman down onto the ground.

Asya’s left leg hooked behind Queen’s, and she was falling to the ground as well. All semblance of art and craft seemed to go out of the fight now, and the two were just feral. Attempting to kill the opponent was the only motivation.

Queen clambered onto Asya and pummeled her in the face repeatedly. The smaller woman squirmed and twisted, and as Rook watched, her legs somehow scissored up around Queen’s left arm and her neck. The tiny, slim legs locked behind Queen’s blowing blonde hair, choking the larger woman.

Rook’s anger grew. He knew Queen could handle herself in a fight with just about anyone except maybe God, but seeing her being hurt set his teeth to grinding. Not that he blamed Asya. He didn’t really want to see her hurt, either. But when he tried to shout out again, he discovered he’d barely caught enough breath to whisper.

Queen spared one hand to attempt to loosen the chokehold on her throat, but continued raining blows down with her other fist. On the next punch, Asya swiped blindly with her left arm and pushed Queen’s pistoning arm to the side, where the fist made contact with the ground instead of Asya’s blood-soaked face. Queen let out a howl of rage, and Asya torqued her hips and legs, driving Queen’s weight to the side and off of her. As Queen’s side hit the snow-covered ground, both women heard an ear-piercingly loud whistle. The sound was shrill and booming at the same time. It was immediately followed by a ferociously loud and growling voice.

“Knock it…the fuck off…now!”

Rook reached down, grabbed both women by the back of their shirts and pulled them violently apart. Neither one resisted. The two bodies deflated and crumpled as both women began to feel their injuries from the fight. Then they slowly began to get to their feet, with Rook standing between them and holding his hands up to each like a traffic cop.

“Not another punch.” Rook tried to appear menacing, but after the beating he had taken at the farm, he wasn’t in much shape to do anything if the women were determined to ignore him and tried again to kill each other.

Queen coughed once and spat out a mouthful of blood. Her nose was gushing crimson as well. Rook glanced to Asya and saw that Queen’s raining punches had split the Russian woman’s lip, and small cuts above both her brows were leaking blood into her eyes, which she simply swiped at with annoyance. He was grateful to notice that both women were breathing heavily and probably neither was in any shape to have another go.

“Normally I’d pay big money to see a fight like that, but we have more important things to deal with today. Asya, Queen is one of my people. She’s here to help.” He turned to Queen and motioned to Asya. “Queen, this is Asya. Long story short, she was held hostage, I freed her, she came back to ask for my help in something, but saved my life instead. She’s on my side.”

“Your side?” Queen looked ready to slug him again.

“Against the—forget it.” Rook looked to Asya and nodded toward the store. “Why don’t you go see if they have any bandages, and give us a chance to catch up.”

This early in the morning in the sleepy town, Rook was thankful there were no gawking bystanders. Asya nodded her curt Russian nod, and then stalked into the general store, keeping Queen in view with squinted eyes until she passed the threshold into the shop. Queen eyed the woman like prey until she disappeared through the doorway. Then she rounded her glare onto Rook.

“Not a fucking word from you for weeks—we didn’t even know if you were alive—and then you turn up in backwater reindeer country playing pattycakes with that little tramp?” she was shouting. She advanced on him and smacked him across the face, but it lacked power or even emphasis.

He looked her in the eyes and said nothing. She tried to hold his gaze for a moment, but then turned away.

“Things in Siberia were rough, Zel. I needed some time to get my head together.” Rook paused for a moment, then continued. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Knight lost men, too, Rook, but he didn’t run away and put his head in the sand.”

“Put my—” Rook’s face turned a few shades more red.

At that moment, Asya walked out, saw Rook’s face and turned right back around.

Rook rolled his neck, popping vertebrae. “They were slaughtered, Queen. Didn’t stand a fucking chance, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to help.”

“And now you know how I’ve felt since you disappeared,” Queen said.

While their mutual affection had been growing slowly for some time, this was the closest they’d ever been to honest about it. “Which is why I stayed away. If I came back I might have checked out. Those men that died, on any other day, they could have been you. Not sure I could have lived with that.” He waved his hand out toward the store. “Every time she landed a punch, I felt like throwing up.” He paused, suddenly out of words to say and wondering if he should take the next verbal step. But that scared him more than anything he’d faced before. “Zel...”

“Stop calling me that.”

“What?”

“My mother called me Zel. It means something.” Queen leveled her eyes on his. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

Asya returned a second time, carrying a box of band-aids and a small first aid kit that she tossed to Queen. The spell was broken as Queen caught the kit in the air with hardly a glance in its direction.

“So what the hell are you still doing here, Rook?” Queen’s countenance was all business now, any sign of affection disappeared the second Asya returned. For her part, Asya looked just as serious, but Rook was pleased to note that at least some of the tension between the two had dissipated.

“There’s a village north of here. Fenris Kystby. A former Nazi laboratory, strange wolves and now the entire populace of villagers, who only yesterday were thanking me, attacked me this morning like a scene from Night of the Friggin’ Dead. Something definitely wacky is going on in that town. And a friend of mine is dead because of it. I’m going back there, and I’m going to figure out what’s going on. You two can stay here and try to kill each other again, or you can come with me.” Rook climbed into the driver’s seat of the much-abused Volvo. Without a word—and without any haggling over shotgun—Asya slipped into the back seat while Queen took the passenger seat. Both women closed their respective doors at the same time and fastened their seatbelts.

“Alright, that’s what I’m talking about,” Rook said. Then from the backseat, Asya smacked her hand across the back of his head.

“Do not get cocky, Stanislav,” she told him. Queen snickered.

“God help me if you two become friends.”

FOURTEEN

Shanghai, China

KNIGHT BURST PAST the rusted, flaking roof access door to the balcony that ran around the clock tower, and raced to the edge of the tan concrete wall. Far below him and down the street, the energy ball still pulsed. He could feel its electrical hum in his teeth like he was standing too close to high tension power lines. Things were racing out of the globe of light and streaking down the abandoned street. About fifty feet closer to the clock tower, Knight saw that Bishop had taken cover behind an abandoned pale green taxi cab, and had set up his XM312-B across the hood of the vehicle. The big man was firing furiously at the speeding blurs as they shot from the crackling sphere, many of them clearly hit and knocked into the nearby river from the impact of the .50 caliber rounds.

But just as many of the things were getting past Bishop.

Knight quickly laid his EXACTO sniper rifle along the edge of the wall in front of him and targeted a space behind Bishop’s position. Knight pulled his eye from the scope and looked for the speeding blurs. One was looping back around and heading for Bishop’s back.

Damn, they’re fast.

Knight barely had time to guess at the thing’s speed before he fired the weapon at the empty space behind Bishop’s head, hoping he could hit the racing blur before it struck his friend from behind.

The bullet blasted from the muzzle of the rifle. A cloud of white burst from the far side of the creature’s head. The dead thing’s momentum carried it forward and it slammed into Bishop from behind, before rolling to the front of the cab, obscuring it from Knight’s view.

Bishop was knocked off his feet and simply rolled in one smooth move across the hood of the cab. He swung the barrel of the weapon back and fired at his previous position, blasting another creature and sending it smashing through the plate glass window of a cell phone shop. Broken plastic display phones skittered out of the shop across the pavement with clicking and clacking sounds, but again, Knight was denied a chance to actually see whatever it was Bishop was shooting at.

He began picking blurs and firing about ten to twenty yards in front of each, hoping to hit something. Every third shot or so, he needed to protect Bishop’s six from another speeding blur, but for half of those, Bishop himself swung around in a full 360º arc, firing with his machine gun. Knight couldn’t see if he was hitting the things, but he could tell, as they ducked and weaved before retreating, that Bishop wasn’t killing many of them, if he was hitting them at all.

Knight saw some the things tearing back toward the globe of crackling light. Then the movement was gone.

He looked for a new target and didn’t see anything moving down on the street. Knight finally had a chance to look for his fallen targets and was surprised to see so few. Damn, I missed more than I thought. He could see only three, and he knew there was a fourth in front of the cab.

“You seeing these things, Knight?” Bishop’s voice sounded loud in Knight’s earpiece as he shouted.

Knight looked through the scope of his rifle at one of the fallen bodies. He had hit it. It was missing a good portion of its muscular chest, but otherwise, the corpse provided him a pretty good idea of what they were up against. The beast was at least seven feet tall, and milky white. Long, powerful limbs were claw tipped, yet the creature was vaguely humanoid in appearance. The head was a bit blockish with a domed forehead through which he could see a white, spongy mass.

I can see through its skin, Knight realized and then wondered, is that its skull? Or its brain? He glanced over the rest of the body and saw bundles of long, sinewy muscles twitching beneath the translucent skin.

The creature struck him as somewhat feline, especially the way it moved, but it was really unlike anything native to Earth. The most obtrusive feature was its eyes, which were huge orbs on the outside of the sides of its face. Like a chameleon, Knight thought, separately mobile and stereoscopic—able to look in multiple directions at once.

“I’m seeing the fallen ones. Having a hard time tracking the moving ones,” Knight replied, still eyeing one of the corpses.

“Yeah, I hear you. I’m—oh shit, here they come again.”

Knight pulled back from the scope and saw several more shapes blitzing from the ball of light down the street. Bishop opened up fire on them again, strafing across the street. Knight began taking targets as they came for Bishop, one after the next. The creatures were falling this time—he’d figured out the effective range ahead of their paths to fire now—but too many of them were getting past Bishop’s arc of fire, leaving Knight to pick them off. One bumped against Bishop, throwing his aim off, his stream of .50 caliber bullets passing harmlessly into the air. Knight could see more of the creatures advancing on Bishop. He fired again, taking down another creature and toggled his microphone, “Bishop, time to bug out man.”

Bishop dropped to the ground just as one of the creatures was about to hit him. Instead, it leapt over him and its momentum kept it going down the street. Knight let that one pass, even though he knew it would loop back on Bishop from behind. He focused on the next wave coming out of the glowing sphere.

Then an idea came to him. As he tracked another streaking form moving close to a line of abandoned vehicles, Knight chose a car three car-lengths in front of the speeding creature and unleashed the devastation of his sniper rifle on the fuel tank of a black Audi. The tank ruptured, sending fuel onto the ground, and Knight quickly fired a second round at the pavement, the spark of its impact igniting the fuel and the speeding creature. The explosion of the remaining fuel in the car made a deep bass thump and the car flipped over backward.

Bishop was on the move, leaping over the hoods of vehicles, then firing in a sweep, and then leaping again. Knight repeated the move, rupturing fuel tanks two more times before the creatures swept over to the boardwalk beside the river, well away from the cars.

“OK, tangos are intelligent, too, Bishop.”

Suddenly the staccato explosions of Bishop’s weapon stopped. Knight pulled his eye away from the scope and glanced up. He saw Bishop drop the big weapon, run up the hood of a Buick, and leap into the air toward the next abandoned car on the road, throwing a grenade behind him from the apex of his leap. Bishop landed on the roof of the bright red Ford in front of him, crunching in the thin metal, as the creature trailing him reached the Buick and the grenade as it landed. Knight targeted another creature chasing Bishop just as the explosion from the grenade sent up a huge cloud of smoke and debris, obscuring his shot.

“Damn.”

Bishop made for the river’s edge, as he had said he would do. Knight adjusted his stance, leaning further out over the parapet. He targeted the last creature chasing Bishop and fired. Then he pulled back from the scope to see yet another wave of speeding lines making waves in the air like heat haze, down on the street. Then one of the creatures mounted the roof of the cab Bishop had previously used for cover and turned its head up to the sky and howled.

The sound was hideous.

The noise was deafening and terrible, a deep bass rumble like a horn filled with every terror in the world. It vibrated through Knight’s body, rattling his bones. He dropped the sniper rifle and it fell to the next lower section of the tower. Goose bumps broke out across every part of his skin, sweat beaded and dripped as though he were clutched by fever, and a terror-filled scream that would shame him forever had anyone heard it ripped from his lungs.

Shin Dae-jung had never been so scared in his life.

FIFTEEN

Chicago, IL

3 November, 0100 Hrs

WELL, THIS IS embarrassing.

King thought he was going to die. Clutching the pants of a dead man with one hand, and the eject lever between the dead pilot’s knees in the other, King held on for dear life as the rockets on the underside of the ejection seat slammed him out of the crashing plane and across the sky laterally at close to 100 mph. He had just enough time to see that the thrust from the rockets on the seat were going to slam him, the pilot and the seat into the side of a building with darkened glass windows and five vertical stripes of dark tan concrete. Even in the brightly lit night scene, and at a point of view from which he had never seen it, he recognized it as the Park Hyatt building.

Then his next thought as the chair blasted across the sky was to try to crawl lower down the pilot’s legs toward the blasting rockets—so he wouldn’t end up between his impromptu getaway vehicle and the oncoming wall of stone and glass.

His brain didn’t have time to complete the next thought.

I hope I don’t get roasted—

The rockets died. The chute section in the headrest exploded outward with a pop, slamming into King’s shins and flipping him over the footrest of the seat toward where the rockets were propelling the craft just a second before. His body arced out and away from the seat and he lost his hold on the ejection lever. He clung for all he was worth to the dead pilot’s flight suit and twisted hard, scrambling in mid air to get his other hand back on the pilot before the impact.

When it came, it rattled him, but the impact was far less than he had expected. Two men, one chair. The normal propulsion of the seat might have pitched them through the glass and out the other side of the building, but because of the weight, the propellant had quit and their velocity had died down before the crash. The window around them shattered into tiny safety glass crumbles that rained down to the street. The chair lodged itself just inside the building, but King was dangling from the pilot’s ankles and swinging from the bottom of the chair, on the outside of the building, with the wind tearing into him and lightning strikes from the several-story glowing orb below him crashing into the surrounding structure.

Well. This isn’t too bad. If I can just…

King felt the chair shift and start to slide, and then it was in freefall—above King. He didn’t have time to wonder whether the parachute, which had already deployed but had yet to have time or airflow to inflate, would open in the plummet to the Water Tower park several hundred feet below him. He knew it wasn’t far to the ground and it would be a close thing. He scrambled up the pilot’s legs, now trying to get on top of the pilot before the seat separated from the pilot’s corpse.

TOM DUNCAN STOOD on the street craning his head up. He stared up at the spectacle of King’s amazing ejection and wondered if it would somehow be possible for the man to survive. He had approached the edge of the glowing, lightning-spitting ball, to see if he could gain some readings from it for Aleman, when King’s F-16 had come ripping into the sky overhead. Lightning struck the plane and then it faltered. Duncan could see it would crash. A second or so after praying that King would eject, he zoomed in with the camera lens on his helmet’s heads-up display to see King making his way into the pilot’s seat.

Then everything had gone crazy. Lightning began shooting from the glowing orb even more than it had been, striking the buildings all around the Water Tower park. The canopy on the jet burst off, and King, riding on the pilot’s ejection seat with the pilot, was fired sideways through the air and straight at the side of a building. Duncan’s heart was climbing up his throat like a mountaineer moving up a chimney of rock as he watched in fear for his friend.

Then a more immediate concern. The broken, crashing 20-million dollar jet was spinning and falling right for Duncan’s position. With the crackling dome wall of energy that now reached close to 80 feet high directly behind him, Duncan could only move ahead along Michigan Avenue or dodge to the side in either direction, but the plane was spinning erratically as it came down out of the sky at him and he wasn’t sure which way to move. Time slowed as he heard shrieks from the nearby onlookers, where the military and police had set up a cordon down by the Walgreen’s store on Chicago Avenue.

The plane was almost on him and Duncan simply threw himself forward onto the rough asphalt of Michigan Ave., scraping the palms of his hands. The falling plane, its engine completely shut down, flew over his head soundlessly. The lack of noise was eerie. The crowd down the street quieted.

Duncan rolled over and sat up to look back up Michigan at the energy sphere. There was no sign of the plane or its wreckage. Duncan tapped at the keys on his wristpad and a display from a CCTV camera mounted on the John Hancock Center’s roof, looking down on the street on the other side of the energy ball, appeared on his helmet’s display. No sign of the jet on the other side.

The energy dome had simply swallowed the crashing plane. Then Duncan remembered King.

He scrambled to his feet and looked back up to the top of the Park Hyatt and there was King, dangling from the bottom of the ejection seat, which had lodged into what his faceplate told him was the 67th floor of the building. Hold on, King, I’m on my way, Duncan thought. He was about to start running diagonally across the park to the building, when the chair, its dead pilot and King, all shifted, lurched and fell.

Oh no.

Duncan watched, spellbound as the chair separated and King scrabbled up the dead man’s body as the parachute inflated and slowed their descent. Thank God.

Then the strong winds ripping between the skyscrapers, made stronger by the atmospheric disturbance caused by the pulsing dome, slammed into King and the pilot, blasting their parachute north across the Water Tower park and directly toward the sphere of light. They were still a few hundred feet high when the roaring wind shifted and their parachute moved sideways, with King furiously working the toggle straps.

They plummeted faster, King and the dead man, just ten feet in front of the wall of electric light, and Duncan held his breath. King was 100 feet off the ground, but still too far to let go of the dead pilot and leap to safety. Lightning blasted from the sphere again, barely missing the parachute.

Duncan was sure King would make it now. Fifty feet off the ground.

The wind gusted again, hard. Duncan was almost blown off his feet. The dome was playing havoc with the atmosphere around it, like an electrical storm.

King was blown into the wall of the energy dome. He and the dead pilot swung in toward it at a 45-degree angle away from the parachute. As their bodies hit the wall of energy, they disappeared inside it, until only the lines of the parachute and the black canopy could be seen. King went into the dome at probably 30 feet off the ground. Duncan couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Then the wind shifted again and the parachute gusted back and away from the dome, yanking King and the pilot back out of it and over the park until they slammed onto the ground just to the side of the concrete fountain in the park’s middle. Duncan sprinted over to the crashed men.

King stumbled to his feet, after the dead pilot’s body had taken most of the brunt of the hard landing.

“King!” Duncan arrived and saw the haunted look on King’s face. “What is it?”

“On the other side. I saw them. They’re coming.”

“How many?” Duncan pulled the strap of a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun over his head and handed the weapon to King, then pulled out a Browning 9 mm from the leg holster he wore.

King looked at the MP5 and then at Duncan. “More of them than we have bullets.”

SIXTEEN

Fenris Kystby, Norway

3 November, 1130 Hrs

ROOK LED QUEEN and Asya down the steep slope of the hill toward a bush at the bottom of the rise. When he reached the large squat bush, he bent down and swept some of the snow away from the base of it with his bare hands until they were wet and pink. The snow had fallen for the last few hours, through their breakfast at a small inn and their impromptu shopping trip for Rook to buy a warmer coat.

Asya had arrived with her own pack full of warmer clothing, when she had come looking for Rook. Queen had her own supplies as well. But Rook had had only the clothes on his back and the Desert Eagle pistol that was now probably melted to slag in the fire back at Peder’s barn. The thought of Peder’s death brought Rook to a dark place and instead he turned his mind to the present task.

He reached down for the roots at the bottom of the shrub and hauled on them with all his strength. The bush lurched upward and then sideways, as the secret entrance to the lab, concealed beneath the bush, flipped open with the fake bush on top of it. Snow blew down into the four-foot-square, darkened opening. The air smelled stale. But Rook could still clearly see the rungs of the ladder that led down the vertical tunnel to the horizontal tunnel at its bottom, which would take him to the old lab he had discovered.

“You found this when you were hunting a scientist?” Queen was skeptical.

Rook turned to her and then to Asya. Both women wore similar expressions. “Look, something was eating Peder’s animals. I thought it was a wolf at first—there are several around here—but it turned out to be this Nazi scientist that had been here since the ’40s, and had experimented on himself, to the point that he was nuts. The guy’s corpse is down here, so you’ll see for yourselves. I don’t know what the hell is going on in this town, besides this old Nazi science lab, but I was told it had been shut down for ages. No one even knew Kiss was still alive. The place looks abandoned, but I figure it’s the best place to start looking for information. I didn’t have time to search it properly last time, because, you know, I was trying not to die.”

Queen nodded at him, her blonde hair bouncing. “Booby traps?”

“Down there? Nah.”

Queen dropped into the hole, her hands gripping the sides of the ladder. She slid out of sight. Asya looked at Rook and nodded. “You have strange friends, Stanislav. And strange stories.”

“Call me Rook.”

“Finally being honest with both of us, then?”

Rook widened his eyes to say, Shut-up! He realized Asya had heard more of the conversation at the store than she’d let on and whispered, “Don’t go listening in on people’s conversations. It’s rude.”

“I could not hear you. Your body language said everything.” Asya grinned. “You have feeling for—”

Rook raised his hand quickly, pinching his fingers together and hissing like Cesar Millan, the “Dog Whisperer,” to an unruly mutt. “Not another word.”

Asya shrugged and dropped into the tunnel after Queen.

Rook shook his head and grumbled, “Friggin’ women, always getting in everyone’s business.” He looked around the field and back up the hill. Nothing moved in the snow except for his misting breath as it slowly rose from his mouth and met the frigid air. Then he dropped down the ladder, and pulled the trap door shut over his head.

At the bottom of the ladder, the stone tunnel led away down a slope toward the old Nazi laboratory. The tunnel was small, and Rook had to stoop in places to make his way. Crumbled stone still littered the floor. The air smelled dry and dusty. Rook doubted anyone else had been down here. After five minutes of travel down the sloping tunnel, he caught up with Queen and Asya, who both stood before a metal door with a frame embedded in the rock. Queen wore a Petzl headlamp on an elastic strap where her fleece headband had been. The light illuminated the door and the word stenciled above it:

Ragnarök.

Queen turned to him with an upraised eyebrow. “Destruction of the Gods?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Rook saw the confused look on Asya’s face. “The word refers to the end of the world in Norse mythology. I’m sure the Nazis thought it was suitable for their kooky experiments.”

The door had no handle. It was just a smooth metal slab. Rook reached past the women to the upper-right edge of the door, where he knew a small crevice existed in the frame of stone around the metal door. He remembered the worn-smooth feel of the stone on his fingers. He exerted the right amount of leverage and the metal door began to creak open. Queen stepped up and braced her arm against the wall to help Rook with the door. In her other hand, she held an M9 pistol—the only weapon any of them now had.

They stepped through into a small laboratory. It clearly had not been used in some time, but the room was still well organized, with the exception of a few bullet holes in things from Rook’s recent battle with Edmund Kiss, the scientist that had experimented upon himself until he was practically a feral, yeti-like creature. But Kiss was dead. Nothing Rook had seen in his previous visits to the lab—first hunting for the creature that turned out to be Kiss, and later battling the creature he had become to the death—hinted at mind control or anything else that could be connected to the townspeople of Fenris Kystby going glazed and attacking him and Peder at the farm that morning.

There were two doors in the room. Rook knew one was a closet. He nodded to the other door. Queen went to the door and opened it quickly with the M9 leading. Inside was a larger room with offices and two doors sporting bright orange, biohazard symbols.

“Kiss kept the wolves for his experiments down here before he started injecting himself with the stuff.” Rook opened one of the biohazard doors. The room was filled with built-in metal cages that rose to the ceiling, but each was now empty, their doors ajar. “Huh. Nobody home. Fossen must have taken the wolves out of here.”

“Fossen was the man that helped you find this lab and stop Kiss?” Queen asked, stepping back into the main room and making for the other biohazard door. Asya stood to the side, saying nothing.

“That’s right. Don’t bother with that one. Empty room.” Rook walked to the other door leading out of the large office space. Queen opened the biohazard door she was near, despite Rook’s explanation and peeked inside. The room was as Rook had said, completely empty. She moved with Asya, following Rook through the last door.

The new room had a single source of natural light—a small window set in a wall close to the ceiling. Most of the window had dirt packed against it, and the portion above that was nearly covered by snow. The small corner of the window that still allowed light to flow into the room was no larger than a coin.

Under the window was a set of double doors that Rook knew from a previous visit were also covered over with dirt. The entirety of the lab had been buried when it was abandoned.

Or had it?

Rook looked quickly around the room. “What the hell?”

“What is it?” Asya asked.

“Kiss is missing. This was his den. The floor was littered with animal bones. His corpse should still be here. It was only a few days ago.”

“The other man…Fossen. He probably cleaned up when he left with the wolves you said were in the cages,” Queen guessed.

“But there’s more than that, Queen. There was a sofa here that Kiss was using as a bed.”

“So?”

“So if those doors,” Rook pointed at the double doors beneath the window, “are covered with earth, and there are no other ways in or out besides the tunnel we came in, how the hell did someone move a full-sized sofa out of here?”

SEVENTEEN

Chicago, IL

“RUN!”

Deep Blue and King sprinted down Michigan Ave. toward the National Guard barrier that had been set up at the intersection with Chicago Ave., fifty feet south of the edge of the lightning-hurling monstrosity that chewed further into the buildings to either side of the wide retail strip.

Large slabs of concrete and steel debris rained down from the upper reaches of the buildings on either side of the men as lightning discharges slammed the structures repeatedly. King and Deep Blue reached the Guardsmen, who allowed them behind the barrier. A short barrel-chested man wearing Captain’s bars and a nametape that said WEST, approached them.

“Who’s in charge, Captain?” Deep Blue asked.

“I am. Who the hell are you guys?” West seemed shocked more than angry.

“We’re Delta. You should have received a call from General Keasling—”

“Yeah, King and Blue, right?”

“Close enough.” Although it wasn’t strictly true anymore—Chess Team had been a Delta assault team at one time, but now they and the entire Endgame organization were so far off the books that few people knew they existed. Deep Blue and General Keasling had decided for the duration of the current threat that Keasling would notify any military presence on the ground that a Delta operations team was inbound, allowing Chess Team the freedom to act. In a situation less chaotic, they might not have been able to get away with such theater and keep it a secret from the rest of the US Military, but with energy domes popping up globally and vicious creatures darting out of the globes, no one would recall one small two-man Delta team once the dust settled. “Get your men ready to fire everything they have at the dome. A lot of targets are going to be coming out of it. And they are coming fast.” Deep Blue, done talking, turned to face the dome up the street.

“Seriously?” West’s face was appalled.

“Damn serious, Captain. You saw me parachute in through the dome and out again? I just saw them. They’re coming. Fast. Be ready to shoot.” King turned to the barrier and aimed his MP5.

The Captain passed orders to the Guardsmen—most of whom took up defensive positions around the wooden sawhorse barrier, and a few took to ordering the civilian bystanders further from the upcoming fight.

Then the lightning stopped all at once, as if the globe, which had been trying to solidify itself, finally achieved a kind of stasis. The wind died down, too, and everything was eerily silent. Time ticked by. No one spoke. But the lull was short-lived.

Eight white streaks blitzed out of the brilliant wall of the dome, racing in all directions. The Guards opened fire haphazardly, and the wall of noise from fifty M-16 rifles firing was deafening after the momentary quiet. King returned fire with the others, but the creatures were just too damn fast. He watched in horror as two of the streaks tore into the line, decimating men on either side of him. Their blood spattered him in the breeze kicked up in the wake of the fast-moving creatures. The other racing creatures had gone in a variety of directions—some behind the Hyatt, and others toward the lake. King suspected the creatures had no specific targets in mind, but instead just ran in a variety of directions and ripped into anything they encountered.

He saw Deep Blue rolling on the ground and picking up a fallen soldier’s M-16 rifle and leveling it at a creature that was returning. He fired a confident three-round burst, each round punching through the monster’s rounded forehead, widening the wound, shattering what looked like a clear skull and shredding the spongy white brain beneath.

King had seen a lot of people shot in the head, but had never witnessed the bullet’s progress after it entered the target. The explosive effect on the creature’s brain was...horrible, but in this case, a thing of beauty.

As the life went out of the creature, it crashed through the group and over Deep Blue’s head before slamming into the wooden sawhorse, sending a spray of wooden splinters and larger pieces of wood into the street beyond the small group.

“How the fuck—” King began.

Deep Blue tapped the faceplate of his helmet. “Targeting software.” He fired another sustained burst of rifle fire in a direction none of the other Guardsmen were targeting. Once again, a racing creature moved from a blur to white bulk sliding on the pavement and kicking up dust into the blowing wind. “King. The Humvee.”

King glanced around and saw a parked National Guard Humvee, an armored all-purpose military vehicle. He raced over to it and slipped behind its wheel. The remaining Guardsmen were firing M-203 grenade launchers at the creatures streaking through the park toward them. And King was about to drive through the maelstrom. Deep Blue took down another creature further up Michigan Ave., just as King crashed the Humvee through the one remaining wooden sawhorse. He cranked the wheel left and drove up onto the curb and into the small park that surrounded the castle-like 19th-century Water Tower. One of the creatures tore around the corner of the structure, heading right for King’s vehicle.

King floored the accelerator pedal and hit the creature dead center. The impact jarred the vehicle as if it had been hit with an IED. The rear end of the Humvee tilted up and the vehicle spun, its back end slamming into the limestone monument, tearing out a small block of stone. The Humvee would still roll, but the monster was done. The corpse on the roll of steel cable attached to the snub hood of the vehicle was a mangled mess of white translucent flesh that reminded King of a jelly fish, if jelly fish had bones and muscles.

Up close, the thing was hideous. The misshapen head was blocky and curved down to its wide mouth, which was full of clear, sharp teeth, like jagged icicles. It’s not just the skin that’s clear, King realized, but the bones, too. The smooth curve of its dolphin-like forehead was marred by a pug nose and framed by two orb-like eyes positioned on either side of its head, giving it an insectoid look. The clear skin allowed King a view of the white veins, taut ligaments and coiled cables of bulging muscle beneath.

His Humvee impact had cut this creature in half at the waist, and only the head, torso and powerful arms were on the hood of the vehicle. King looked out the window for the other half. Even though the glowing energy sphere, which King decided was some kind of portal transporting these creatures from one place to another, provided abundant light, it was still the middle of the night and the park was crisscrossed by long shadows from the tower and the surrounding buildings.

King hit the gas and chased after the next creature he spotted. This one was retreating back toward the energy dome and King gave chase, moving the Humvee up to 50 mph before he felt he was pacing the beast. They were headed right for the wall of the dome. King decided that if it went through, he would follow it and mash the fucker into the road on the other side.

The dome loomed large before him, reaching a hundred feet above the road now, and it had stretched the width of the road and through most of the buildings that had been to either side of it. The sound of lightning began to crackle again. The kinetic white creature nearly reached the sizzling yellow energy, when the wall of light winked out, muting the crackling sound. The creature continued on directly ahead.

And then down.

The dome was gone, and in its place was a crater in the Earth that stretched almost 150 feet in diameter. The creature’s momentum carried it well past the lip of the crater and it arced down into the suddenly empty space.

King cranked hard on the wheel of the Humvee and slammed on the brakes. The vehicle turned an abrupt 90 degrees to the left, its thick tires screaming, but it was no use. The armored 5000-pound vehicle rolled in empty space as it plummeted down into the abyss of the ruined Chicago street and the cauterized clean edges of the crater below it.

EIGHTEEN

Shanghai, China

SHIN DAE-JUNG COWERED against the low concrete wall. His eyes squeezed tightly shut. His whole body shook with fear. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes even a slice, because he knew with the certainty of a gambler on a winning streak that if he opened his eyes, his vision would fill with the sight of his grandmother having her innards eaten by one of his best friends.

Knight shook his head. His thoughts made no sense. Why is it so dark? It was daylight. We were in a fight…

When Chess Team had first gone up against the malevolent genetics company Manifold, run by the twisted egomaniac Richard Ridley, the company’s security team captured Bishop and their scientists experimented on him. He had become what the team termed a “Regen”—one of Ridley’s twisted regenerating soldiers. But there had been a heavy price attached to regenerative healing and near-immortality. The regeneration process slowly ate the soldier’s mind, filling it with aggression, until he was nothing more than a raging, hulking terror. Bishop had been well on his way to becoming such a mindless beast of anger, and Knight was the only one that had fought the big Iranian American when he was in his full-on Regen state. But Bishop had been cured, Ridley was gone and Manifold was no more. Questions formed in Knight’s terrorstruck thoughts. Why was he certain Bishop had reverted to his Regen form? How had his ailing grandmother arrived in Shanghai? And why was the Regen Bishop trying to eat her?

Knight cracked his tightly clamped eyelids and daylight burst through them like stabbing skewers. He squinted and blinked a few times until his eyes adjusted to the glare. His head felt heavy and his limbs didn’t want to move yet. He was curled in a ball on the concrete floor of the balcony on the Customs House clock tower. He groggily sat up. A chill ran up his back. His body was soaked through with sweat. What the hell?

Knight stood and swayed. Things went out of focus and he thought he would fall, but then reality reasserted itself and the world around him slammed into focus again. He looked over the wall. He had dropped the EXACTO rifle. The glowing, pulsing sphere was still crackling down the street and throwing sharp, jagged bolts of lightning to strike the street, the buildings and the river. Debris or water pluming up with each strike.

The river! Bishop!

“Bishop! Can you hear me?”

Static was the only reply. He looked over the parapet wall again, expecting to see Bishop’s body on the ground with the few creatures they had managed to kill. But there were no bodies. Either the beasts had managed to get back up, or the surviving ones had pulled away the corpses of the dead.

Then a blur caught Knight’s eye. One last creature streaked out of the glowing energy dome and headed to the base of the clock tower where Knight watched from above. The thing stopped its hectic race across the pavement just shy of the base of the building and slowly craned its head sideways, so its chameleon-like eye was looking up the tower, directly at Knight. This can’t be good.

Knight was about to consider alternate means of escaping the Customs House building, but the creature didn’t enter the lobby. It continued to stare up at Knight for another few seconds. Knight didn’t know how its vision functioned. Maybe if he didn’t move at all, the thing wouldn’t spot him. The creature squatted low and lunged toward the stone base of the building. The leap carried it twenty feet into the air before its claws extended and the beast snagged the side of the building. It hung on in a crouch, its bizarre head still tilted like a dog listening to a faraway sound, its eye still glaring up the building at Knight. Then it began a galumping, leaping climb, straight up the side of the building toward Knight’s position.

“Ah, shit.” Knight bolted away from the low wall and quickly glanced around. At the speed the creature was climbing the building, it would be here in seconds. Without the EXACTO, he had only his KA-BAR knife and a grenade on him. “Bishop, if you’re out there, I could use some help! I’m bugging out of my hide.” He was still filled with the panic from earlier, although visions of his grandmother had faded and he no longer had the feeling Bishop had reverted to his Regen state. Where had that come from anyway? Wait…the roar. It started with the howl that one creature made.

There was no other escape beside the rusted access door from the stairs he had used to reach the balcony. Knight raced to the door and at the last second, pulled the grenade from his belt pouch. A standard-issue M67 fragmentation grenade, Knight didn’t know how effective it might be on the beast, but it was all he had. He removed the safety clip, then positioned himself at the top of the stairs, inside the stairwell, holding the door ajar, with one outstretched hand. Using his thumb to remove the pin, Knight held the spoon on the side of the grenade for a second longer, his watchful eyes never leaving the edge of the wall where he expected to see the creature at any time.

But instead of one clawed hand reaching over the edge of the parapet, the beast leapt straight up into the air, clearing the edge of the wall by a good several feet, before landing on the top of it in a crouch. Knight could just see the clear claws extending from the tips of its white toes dig firmly into the concrete just below the lip of the wall.

Knight let the spoon fly and gently rolled the grenade out, before letting the door swing shut. He leapt over the side railing on the stairs, and dropped eight feet to the middle of the next flight of stairs in a crouch. In one fluid movement, he leapt forward headfirst and reached his hands out side to side to grab the railings on either side of the stairs. With about a third of the flight of steps remaining, he swung his legs up to his chest and pivoted on his arms. Then he lunged down the rest of the flight of stairs feet first, releasing his grip on the rails and flying down to land on the painted blue concrete landing in another crouch. He took two steps and lunged down the next flight of stairs, repeating the maneuver, pinioning on his arms over the side rails halfway down the flight and landing on the next landing. As he crouched on that landing, he heard the rusted door above him creak open and then the grenade detonated, slamming the door shut with a booming sound that echoed down the staircase. Still, the fire door muted the explosion considerably.

Knight wasted no time wondering if the grenade had done its job. He vaulted down the next few flights of stair and then out onto the lower balcony level, searching for the rifle. He quickly found the glass door leading out to the balcony, but he could see before he went through it that the rifle was damaged—the long barrel bent at an unusual angle. He left it and raced back to the stairs.

As he reached them, he heard the fire door at the top of the stairwell slam open. He glanced over the railing and down the space between the flights of stairs. The ground floor had a large room at the foot of the stairs, beyond the blue domed ceiling of the main hall. Above the base of the stairs hung a chandelier that was suspended by a cable running up the center of the stairwell to the 5th floor, where it was secured to the steps by a horizontal bar of concrete that was no doubt reinforced with rebar.

Knight repeated his entire-flight-of-steps lunging technique for the next few flights, listening nervously as he did, to the scrambling, scrabbling noises of translucent claws scraping across painted blue concrete from above. The lower flights of stairs were covered in a rich carpet, but in typical communist Chinese architectural style, after the good impression of the first few floors, the remaining floors were a utilitarian concrete.

When Knight reached the cross-struts for the chandelier on the 5th floor, he was running out of time. He could hear the lumbering beast hurtling down each flight nearly as fast as Knight, though he couldn’t yet glimpse the creature when he looked up. Knight ran down a few steps lower than the cross-struts, so he could see the underside where the electric cable and the metal support cable attached. He didn’t know if the cable would support him, but at that second, he checked nervously again up the stairs and finally saw the thing. It was injured certainly. Its movements were awkward, where before it had been all grace and power and speed. It was bleeding white fluid in places too, and it dragged one of its arms—or were they front paws—as if the limb was completely limp and nonfunctional. The creature stopped and regarded him with one of its swiveling orb eyes, then opened its maw of glassy sharp teeth in what Knight thought could only be a snarl.

Knight brought his gaze back to the cables as the beast began to move again. No time to consider, he leapt out into the open space and grabbed the cables. They easily held his weight, and he swung precariously in space for a moment. The beast rounded the landing above him and was almost to the position from which he had jumped, when Knight wrapped his legs around the cables and hooked one forearm around them, then let go with his other hand and snatched a hold of his wrist. He began to descend the cables, with the sleeve of his BDU jacket on his left arm taking the brunt of the friction. He knew he could outrun the beast with gravity, but he had no idea how he would break his fall before he hit the chandelier below him, which was racing up toward his crotch.

He heard the beast frantically flinging itself down flight after flight of stairs trying to catch him. Knight tried pulling the wrist of his left arm closer to him in an attempt to brake his fall, but the tension of the crook of his elbow had no effect. He could feel the heat from the friction building up against his arm, even through the garment.

Ah no, this is going to hurt.

Knight slammed his feet into the chandelier on the end of the cables and the jolt ripped the cables loose from their mooring up at the 5th floor of the building. To Knight it felt like a slight hiccup in the rate of his descent, and then he was sailing toward the marble floor twenty-five feet below. The long cables chased him toward the floor.

He tumbled backward, the loose cable no longer keeping him upright. As he fell through the open space of the great room that served as a proper lobby after the decorative front hall, he noticed the creature come spilling off the carpet of the main staircase and scrabbling across the slippery marble floor. It slid and slipped, then came to a stop beneath him. The creature tilted its head—staring up—just in time to see a 300-pound crystal chandelier, followed by a 150-pound Knight with an extended middle finger and 60 feet of whipping steel and electrical cables all about to smash it into paste.

NINETEEN

Fenris Kystby, Norway

ROOK OPENED THE double doors below the window just a crack, making sure they were still covered by soil on the outside, as they had been on his last visit to the lab. He didn’t need to open the doors far. He could see a wall of light brown dirt. A small spray of dust and dirt tinkled down to the floor. He shoved the doors closed again.

“Must be another entrance,” Queen said. She hadn’t holstered the M9, and Rook could tell the place was spooking her, even though she would never admit it. “Wouldn’t be the first covert lab in history to have a secret entrance hidden in plain sight.”

Rook stiffened and drew a sharp breath. “Holy—you’re right.” Rook raced out of the room and back into the offices.

“Not sure why that’s a surprise,” Queen said as she gave chase.

Asya followed her back into the offices, where Rook was approaching the door to the empty biohazard room. He turned slightly as he opened the door, to look back at them. “Only two rooms in this place with nothing in them—the closet off the first room we entered and this one. But the door frame to the closet was narrower. No way you could get a sofa in there. But this room? Must be a secret door somewhere.”

Rook stepped into the room and the others came in behind him. Queen’s halogen headlamp illuminated the space as if it were daytime. “I never even stepped into the room the last time. Because it was empty.” He smiled at Queen.

“Just like me a minute ago. Even though you told me it was empty, I looked, but I didn’t go in.”

“Sure. Why would you?” Rook walked back past her and Asya to the wall near the door and felt around the doorframe they had all just come through.

“You are searching for secret switch or something like that?” Asya asked.

“Yup.”

Queen kept the lamp on the doorframe as Rook worked his fingers along the top of it slowly, feeling for any irregularity.

Asya turned and walked to the far wall of the room. She tilted her head slightly, and scrunched up her eyes, looking at the floor. “Queen? Light please.”

Queen swiveled her head and brought the gun up in Asya’s direction. The Russian woman squatted and pointed to the floor, just in front of the edge of the far wall. Queen stepped closer. The light revealed a curving arc where the grimy floor had been disturbed. It looked to Queen like the scrape marks on the floor in front of a revolving door at a fancy hotel.

She stepped up to the wall and pressed gently on it. Asya stood and stepped back as the entire wall began to spin on a well-greased central post, hidden from view.

“Nazis,” Queen said, as she pushed past the slowly twisting door, with her M9 leading the way.

“I hate ’em.” Rook said.

Asya looked confused for a moment before recognition filled her eyes and she smiled broadly. “Last Crusade. Great movie.” She then did a horrible impersonation of Sean Connery. “I shuddenly remembered my Charlemagne, Junior.” She slipped into the passage behind Queen, and Rook brought up the rear, shaking his head.

They moved through another passage like the tunnel that led them to the lab, only this one was made from small crumbling bricks and it was far wider—not wide enough to drive a vehicle through, but well wide enough to carry the bloody sofa through. Rook could almost hear the smile on Queen’s face as she taunted Asya in a whisper. “They let you watch Indy in Mother Russia?”

“Oh yes. The blonde bitch plummets to her death in the end,” Asya returned. Queen whipped her head back to look at Asya, her long blonde hair swinging over her shoulder as she did so. She smiled wide, showing her teeth, and turned back to illuminate the front of the tunnel again, chuckling as she did so.

“I like her, Rook. Let’s keep her.”

The passage continued for what Rook took to be at least a mile. At the end, they found a double set of steel doors set into a rock foundation, similar to the door at the end of the first tunnel. This set of doors also had a name stenciled above it:

Gleipnir.

“I don’t know this one,” Queen said.

“Beats me,” Rook said, “but Ale will know what it means. Ready?”

Queen nodded. Rook took hold of the handles on the doors and pulled them open.

They moved silently. Rook made a mental note that someone must have regularly maintained the doors for them to make so little noise when moving. Perhaps Fossen hadn’t told him nearly enough about what the Nazis were doing in this lab, or what he was doing with his modern wolf research.

What they encountered on the other side of the doors was so immense, it stopped them in their tracks.

They emerged on a wide metal catwalk that ran around the top edges of a cavernous space filled by a large metal structure. Eight curved struts, each rising from a concrete block in the center of the massive room, stretched up some two hundred feet, forming a sphere of metal columns that came together just beneath the ceiling twelve feet above their heads.

Rook glanced down through the catwalk’s metal mesh floor. That’s a long way down.

It looked to Rook as if the thing was missing a giant marble that would sit perfectly in its embrace. Wires and cables snaked along the length of each strut, connected to metal plates, like solar panels, spaced along the inner edges of the struts. The structure reminded Rook of an oversized version of the Faraday cage he’d seen at Boston’s Museum of Science, which directed the flow of lightning.

“Like a cage of giant fingers. But what does it do?” Asya whispered.

“Or what does it hold,” Queen replied.

“Doesn’t matter,” Rook said. “I’m probably gonna wind up breaking the fucker into tiny pieces, so don’t get attached to it. These people killed Peder and nearly killed me. If that thing isn’t designed to create free clean energy for the world, I’m busting it.”

There were computer stations and electronics arrays at panels and desks around the base of the giant room. Along one wall was an enormous hangar-style metal door that could retract into the walls on either side. Doors lined the walls along the catwalk, on the top level where they stood, but also on several levels below, all of which wrapped around the outside of the giant room. Staircases connected each flight to the next. A vertical maze. Massive Klieg lights lit the entire scene from their housings in the ceiling of the cavern.

“Only thing missing is people,” Queen mused aloud.

“They were all too busy kicking my ass this morning.” Rook spotted a large door further along the same wall from where they had emerged. “One mystery at a time. I wanna know where Kiss and the sofa went.”

“I’m going to take a closer look at that…thing,” Queen headed for the stairs down.

Asya paused for a moment. “I will check other doors on this floor.”

“Suit yourselves.” Rook moved to the wide doors and opened them. They opened into an average-sized storage room with gray metal filing cabinets, cardboard boxes and the mysterious missing sofa. Fossen, or someone else, had cleaned the sofa’s old fabric. There was no sign of Edmund Kiss’s bloody remains. Rook looked around the rest of the room before rifling through the file cabinets. The cabinets and boxes were full of moldy documents that had clearly been around since before the ’40s. The smell reminded Rook of his grandmother’s house in New Hampshire, shortly before she died, when her legendary cleaning skills had diminished.

He couldn’t make much sense of the documents. They were scientific and technical reports. He came across the word Ragnarök a few times and only once across the word Gleipnir. But the descriptions of the former only confirmed what he knew already—that Edmund Kiss and other Nazis had begun experimenting with wolf genes around the ’40s and the man had eventually gone missing. For Gleipnir, all he could find were facilities reports. Janitorial supply bills and large food bills, but Rook figured in the older days, in this distant, remote part of Norway, travel to a large supermarket wasn’t likely. They would have had to purchase all their necessary supplies well before the winter, and store everything here in the lab somewhere.

The technical reports discussed things that his meager Ger- man skills were never designed to decipher. Gene sequences, astrophysics, quantum mechanics and medical topics. After fifteen minutes of scanning documents, Rook had even less of an idea of what kind of research was going on in the facility than he had when he’d entered it.

He was about to give up and check out another room when he came across a manila folder that had diagrams of the gigantic octopus-like metal structure in the main room. He paused and squatted down near the floor to look at the pictures more carefully. They showed the massive device with an enormous sphere of crackling energy suspended in its center. In the diagram, lightning bolts shot out of the sphere into the corners of the room.

“Huh, maybe it is supposed to provide energy.” Although Rook doubted the motives of the device’s builders were to provide that energy for free.

Then two things happened at the same time. Rook heard the report of Queen’s M9. Not just one shot. A lot of shots. And Asya was screaming.

Rook leapt to his feet and dropped the folder with its diagrams on the floor as he raced to the door, heading for the catwalk. But when he reached the catwalk, something large and white slammed into him from the side. His feet were knocked out from under him and his lower spine slammed into the guardrail around the edge of the huge machinery-filled chamber. Rook pinioned his arms, desperately trying to claw his way back to balance, but the velocity of the impact sent his upper torso flipping backward over the rail, and he was falling down through the giant room to the floor, hundreds of feet below him.

TWENTY

Endgame Headquarters, White Mountains, NH

LEWIS ALEMAN WAS returning to his senses after the sonic blast of the creature’s roar in Shanghai, as he had listened in on the battle with Knight and Bishop. He had acted quickly at the sudden auditory siege, but not quickly enough. His hand had reached the toggle switch to kill the audio from the Shanghai location, but by that point, Aleman had vomited in sheer terror, before rolling out of the command chair, hitting the carpeted floor and crawling in his own stomach contents, crying and screaming.

Around the room, Matt Carrack had scrambled into a corner and was hugging his legs. Sara Fogg had also vomited. She was on the floor on her hands and knees with a long string of saliva dripping from her mouth to the floor, reminding Aleman of a drooling St. Bernard. George Pierce was nowhere to be seen.

Aleman could only remember the creature’s roar, and his instantly reaching for the audio dampening switch, before his biggest fears seized him. The fear of falling was tangible and terrifying, as he rocketed out of a clear sky with a parachute that refused to open. He realized now that he had hallucinated, but his mind was once again his own. As he struggled to his feet, his mind grappled with what had happened. The creatures ripping out of the domes had a roar that somehow induced panic in their opponents.

Not opponents.

Prey.

That was the only explanation. But what the hell can do that? He recalled the noise of the roar had been low and keening, a little like a foghorn, then rising in pitch as if the foghorn were being tortured.

“Are you okay?” Aleman reached to help Fogg stand.

“What the fuck was that?” Fogg shouted, wiping spittle from her face.

“Some kind of sonic attack. I was terrified. Had some kind of fear-induced hallucination. You?”

Fogg simply nodded.

Across the room, Carrack popped up from where he had been huddled in the corner, pulling his M9 pistol and scanning the room for hostile targets.

“Stand down, Matt. We’re fine here. Are you okay?”

Carrack blinked a few times and looked around the room again, as if he couldn’t believe it was just the three of them. Then he was all business again. “Where’s Dr. Pierce?”

“He ran out,” Aleman grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped down the now-soiled computer seat, then climbed back into it. “Can you check on him?”

Carrack raced out of the room. Fogg looked at Aleman, shaking her head. “Thought I would never get out.”

“What?”

“I have some mild claustrophobia after what happened with the team a few years ago in Vietnam. The attack made me think I was stuck in a tight cave.”

“Did it sound a bit like a foghorn to you?” Aleman asked as he worked the keys to adjust the incoming audio, setting up a filter to keep out the sound of the roar should it come again, so he could continue his role of keeping the field members in touch.

“I’ve got a sensory processing disorder, remember? For me it was a smell. I heard it, but I also smelled it. Like wet dog dipped in dead skunk.”

Aleman smiled sympathetically at her.

“That’s it!”

Aleman and Fogg turned sharply to look at George Pierce, who had just reentered the room with Carrack. Pierce looked haggard. The effects of the creature’s roar had affected him as well.

“What is?” Aleman asked him.

“I’ve been trying to remember where I had seen an image of the creatures the team is facing. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to come up with it and pouring over old books of mythology—but I was checking the wrong mythology.” Pierce ran to a computer desk and started typing in a search as he explained. “Sara’s wet dog comment jogged my memory. When the creatures run on all fours—remember, Ale, when you slowed that video down so we could all see it clearly—they moved like pumas, so my mind locked on feline features. Plus, the odd chameleon-like eyes made me keep thinking of insect species and reptiles. All of that pointed to a Greek mythology connection, which as you know is filled with creatures large and small.

“But I was in a museum in Oslo years ago, and I saw something from Norse mythology…” Pierce found the page he was seeking on the computer and slid his chair back for the others to see. Aleman hopped out of his ergo-chair and came over to stand next to Carrack and Fogg as they peered over George’s shoulder to view a photo of a rough woodcut. The piece of wood was a thousand years old and was housed in a Viking exhibition. It showed a creature very similar to those attacking the cities of the world. The eyes were not entirely correct, squashed and elongated, but the group could see that the artist had definite carving skills. Details like the teeth and claws were carved with careful attention. The body had the same powerful shape and the head looked accurate, too, despite the obvious Norse stylization.

George turned to look at them. “This woodcut was made by a Viking named Agnarsson. A one-armed man who claimed such a creature attacked him. The Norse called it a Dire Wolf.”

“That can’t be right. Dire wolves are an extinct species of wolf in North America.” Aleman frowned and jumped back in his chair, checking the screens for the battles in Chicago and Shanghai, before devoting a second to checking another screen for information on the dire wolf. His fingers flew over the split keyboard. “Here it is. The species was named by an American paleontologist named Joseph Leidy in 1854.”

Pierce stepped closer. “Was he from European descent?”

“Name like Leidy? Most likely.” Aleman typed a bit more. “Yep. German.”

“So it’s possible that this man had heard of a Norse version of such a creature and named the North American variant after it. In any case, the Norse called the creature we are facing a dire wolf. We’ve got a name for it, now.” Pierce moved over to another desk and sat down. “There’s more. The most famous of the Norse dire wolves was named Fenrir, or Fenris Wolf. It’s mentioned in a lot of Norse poetry as the son of Loki, and is regarded as the lone parent of the dire wolves, whether that’s the actual species of terrestrial wolf or these monsters, I can’t say. But legend says it will kill Odin during the time of Ragnarok—the end of the world, which is kind of where we’re headed.”

“Any instructions on how to kill them?” Aleman asked. He didn’t sound serious, but Pierce missed the sarcasm.

“No, but listen to this.” Pierce cleared his throat and read a block of text written below the dire wolf carving. “Much I have travelled, much have I tried out, much have I tested the Powers; from where will a sun come into the smooth heaven when Fenrir has assailed this one?”

“What’s that from?” Fogg asked.

“A poem,” Pierce said and then butchered the title as he slowly pronounced it. “Vafþrúðnismál.”

“From where will a sun come into the smooth heaven when Fenrir has assailed this one?” Aleman repeated the line. “A sun.”

“Yeah, sounds familiar, right?”

Aleman nodded. “I think it’s safe to say this isn’t the first visit these things have made to Earth. Let’s keep digging. See if we can’t find a how-to on closing these portals.” Aleman frowned at his screen. “Hopefully we’ll find something sooner than later.”

Fogg was about to take her own seat and pitch in with Pierce’s research. She paused and turned back to Aleman. “Why? What is it?”

“Since this thing began, I’ve been tracking the appearance of these dire wolf portals around the globe. I’ve also been keeping track of how long each appears, how much damage is done, the size of each occurrence and so forth.”

Pierce pushed his glasses up his nose “And?”

Aleman turned to him. “The globes are getting larger and they are occurring with more frequency around the world. Also, they flicker less.”

Fogg turned in her chair. She was wiping her face off with a wet-wipe. “Flicker?”

“Flicker. As in the strength of the electricity coming off the portals varies in strength the way a lightbulb does when the power is struggling.”

“Wait,” George stood up and walked around the room. “You’re saying these domes aren’t at full power yet? They’re already chucking lightning bolts around like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum with his toys. You’re saying these domes will…what? Get more powerful?”

“Well, yes, but no.” Aleman leaned his head to the side, loudly realigning the vertebrae in his neck with a clunky popping noise. “It’s worse than that. They will get more powerful, but these globes of light are clearly portals for the dire wolves. So far, we’ve only seen a few hit-and-run incursions. They come out, they tear shit up and then run back into the portals. The portals close or collapse or whatever.”

“How are portals even possible? Portals to where?” Fogg asked.

“Don’t know yet, but you’re all missing the point.” Aleman looked at them each slowly. Even Carrack was paying full attention to every word Aleman said. “If the portals grow in strength, then like with a lightbulb, one of two things will happen. Either they will reach full power and stabilize, which means nothing could stop the dire wolves from flooding into our world...or the other thing will happen.”

Fogg looked confused. “What’s the other thing?”

Carrack spoke up from the corner of the room. He understood what Aleman was driving at. “You know when you go to turn on a light and the bulb is done, and the tungsten filament kind of pops? A sort of mini-explosion, but contained inside the glass of the bulb? If I understand what Ale is saying, these things could go boom.”

Pierce turned from Carrack’s laid-back features to Aleman’s tense visage. “How big of a boom?”

TWENTY-ONE

Chicago, IL

KING LEAPT OUT of the Humvee as it hurtled into the suddenly dark abyss, and landed on the scoured-clean side of the crater. With nothing to grab onto, he slid down the steep grade. He could see in the dim light where different pipes or cables had been before the dome had appeared, but the entire surface of the crater wall was now as smooth as glass, the lightning ball having melted soil, asphalt, concrete, metal and everything else into a smooth paste before rapidly cooling and solidifying.

He slid face down, picking up speed as he went. His hands scrabbled for purchase, trying to find a nook or hole to grab, to stop his descent. Behind him, the abandoned Humvee smashed into the center of the hole with a loud crump but no huge explosion. The twisting, shrieking sound of impacting metal was horrible enough and he was glad he had bailed, even though his body slamming into the crater had hurt plenty.

He wasn’t really worried about sliding to the bottom of the crater. He was worried about what had happened to the creature. Did Whitey make it back into the dome before it blinked out?

He looked below him as he slid down into the dark, but couldn’t see anything in the dim light. He strained to hear the beast in the dark below him, but the noise of sirens from rescue vehicles up on the panicked streets drowned out any chance he might have had to detect movement. Moreover, there was the whispering hiss of his uniform gliding on the silky-smooth crater wall throwing up a white noise barrier.

Then, instead of coming to the bottom of the crater, he felt himself lurch downward, falling through the open air. What the hell? But before he had time to finish the thought, he hit solid ground again unexpectedly, the force driving the air from him lungs in a loud cough. He was no longer moving.

He was laying down on a lumpy horizontal surface. He reached under his back with his hand and felt wood spaced out by concrete. Railroad ties. But there’s no subway anywhere near here. King slowly moved to a sitting position and toggled his communications gear.

“Blue, you out there?”

“King! You’re okay?”

“Bruised and battered. I’m in some kind of underground railroad tunnel that shouldn’t be here. Plus I’m going to have trouble getting back to the surface. The sides of the crater are smooth.”

“There were a number of mining projects after the turn of the century, King. Over 110 miles of tunnels and caverns are now under the greater Chicago area. You must have found one of them. What about the hostile you were after?”

“No sign of it. I’m going to give pursuit.”

“Understood. Just be careful. I’ll be down for you once we wrap of the last of them up here. Two of them didn’t make it back to the sphere before it closed down.” King heard the audible click of Deep Blue signing off. He stayed still in the dark of the tunnel, waiting for his ears to adjust to the ambient noise of the tunnel, before he proceeded deeper inside. There was always the chance the creature missed the tunnel and slid to the bottom of the crater, but King didn’t think so. The small hairs on the back of his neck raised; he could tell the beast was in the tunnel with him.

It was colder up on the city streets, with the November wind blowing hard. In the tunnel, the air was dry and mild. The dark was inky black. King knew he would have to use a flashlight. He removed a small tactical light and laser sight from one zippered pocket on his flight suit and attached it to the barrel of his Glock 23, which the Air Force had issued him before his ill-fated F-16 flight. It took some work to get the thing attached in the dark, but he managed it.

With the lights off, he slowly stood and moved to his right. Leading with his hand outstretched, he searched for the wall of the tunnel. It took him only a few steps before his fingertips brushed the edge of the smooth rock wall. His ears strained at the silence, hoping to detect some small sound of movement, but all was dead quiet. King laid his body against the wall and took a slow breath, then flicked on the flashlight and targeting laser.

The tiny LED light and red laser beam illuminated the ten-foot wide concrete tunnel as if the sun had just been turned on. Ten feet deeper into the tunnel and hanging upside down from the ceiling by its claws, its back was to King. He was in its blind spot.

He stood stock still, moving the targeting laser to the back of the creature’s head.

Almost. Almost…

King took a slow deep breath and released it, preparing to take the shot, when the bulbous white orb on the side of the creature’s upside-down head swiveled back to look directly at King. He fired the Glock, but the beast was already on the ground, flipping and landing couched on all four limbs, like a cat.

Then it roared.

A huge, echoing, hideously loud roar that vibrated in King’s chest like the thumping bass of a high-end car stereo. He squinted in momentary pain from the volume of the roar, but then fired another shot and dropped to a crouch of his own.

The creature lurched to the side, a gout of thick white blood spraying from its shoulder. King could smell the fluid, and it didn’t smell coppery like human blood. More like spoiled fish. And metal and plastic.

The beast paused and moved its head to the side, as if it were considering something. One of the white eyes swiveled, peering down at its fresh wound.

King watched, fascinated as the bundles of cable-like muscles under the thing’s translucent skin tensed and released, as the creature moved its head.

King opened up with the remaining 13 rounds in the magazine of his Glock.

The beast’s head erupted with spurts of white fluid, before its perforated corpse collapsed in a heap on the dusty concrete floor of the tunnel.

King stood and ejected the magazine, allowing it to clatter to the floor, the sound of it drowned out by the still echoing gunshots. He reached into another zippered pocket on his flight suit for the only spare magazine he had.

He just finished inserting the fresh rounds when Deep Blue’s voice returned.

“You alright? We heard the roar up here, although my sound dampeners in the helmet kicked in. Aleman says the fear response that the roar creates is pretty devastating.”

“Uh, the what?” King asked.

“Fear response. Did you experience a debilitating terror from the roar?” Deep Blue sounded perplexed in King’s earpiece.

“No. It was loud, but that was all. What are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain later. Come to the edge of the tunnel, we’re lowering a winch from the second Humvee.”

After King was winched up, Deep Blue led him to an exterior door on the side of the John Hancock Center, where he inserted a key and a door opened to reveal a private elevator. “One of the Secret Service evac routes from when I was the President.” Once inside the elevator, he used the same key to activate the lift. The men felt a tug at their stomachs as the fast-moving car raced for the roof, 100 stories above them. Deep Blue relayed the intel from Aleman about the fear response generated by the creature’s roar.

“Didn’t experience anything like that,” King said.

“Odd. Maybe you can’t hear certain frequencies, or have an odd ear structure. Whatever it is, be thankful for it. The National Guard topside were pissing themselves and screaming like little girls. Ale assures me I would have done the same if he hadn’t warned me to calibrate the audio pickups in this helmet to dampen any noises on that frequency.”

“We might all need helmets like that, then.”

The doors to the elevator opened and the men stepped out onto the roof of the building, its two massive antennas towering overhead. A huge fixed-wing, crescent-shaped craft idled on the roof.

“Looks kind of like the Crescent,” King said as they boarded the aircraft.

“Similar. The Persephone. The Pentagon is messing around with the design. Keasling is loaning it to us.”

They sat and strapped in, surrounded by a complicated computer array. Deep Blue removed his helmet and contacted Aleman, back in New Hampshire. The craft launched vertically and then King felt the thrust as it banked and accelerated.

“Aleman, catch us up,” Deep Blue began.

“Cape Town is gone,” came the sober response.

Deep Blue sighed. “How many dead?”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s gone. Completely.”

TWENTY-TWO

Shanghai, China

KNIGHT STAGGERED THROUGH the street, his body sore from the fall onto the creature on the ground floor of the Customs House building. The creature had remained inert after cushioning Knight’s fall from the chandelier. He didn’t know if it was dead or just unconscious, but he stuck his KA-BAR knife in its head five times to make sure it wouldn’t get up again either way.

Now outside the building and making his way between the abandoned cars in the road, Knight felt some of his normal cool persona returning, despite the fact that all he was armed with now was the knife. The creature’s roar had completely incapacitated him and he tried to analyze whether the noise had maybe triggered a dormant childhood terror, but that explanation didn’t feel right. He figured something in the beast’s vocalization had instigated a severe fight or flight response—except he was too paralyzed to fight and too full of hallucinatory fear to even consider taking flight.

There was no sign of the speeding white things along the road, but he had seen them go back into the glowing sphere, as if regrouping or afraid to be left behind, should this energy dome wink out like the others had. Knight squatted down low behind a garishly blue Ford and looked at the pulsing wall of light. The dome showed no signs that it was going anywhere anytime soon.

“Bishop? Where you at?” Knight tried his communicator again, but there was no response from his partner.

He moved from one car to the next, making his way toward the river. He wondered if the creatures could swim. They didn’t really look built for it—all sinew and claw. Still, when the creatures were upright, they looked like bipeds. If man can learn to swim, there’s no reason to think these things can’t. As Knight stepped onto the boardwalk adjacent to the water, a blur of movement in his peripheral vision made him pause.

Crap.

He could make out at least four more of the things tearing around the street. He looked for a pattern, but they moved chaot-ically, almost as if they couldn’t see him, or didn’t yet have a target. Knight glanced back to the water. Ten feet, and he could jump into the river. But will they follow me into the water? What if they swim better than a human?

“KNIGHT! INCOMING!” Bishop’s voice bellowed from the direction of the river.

That was all it took to get Knight in motion. Unfortunately, it was also the impetus the creatures needed to unite in pursuit of him.

He sprinted blindly for the river, moving in a straight line, whereas the beasts still needed to weave in and out of the abandoned car obstacle course.

Knight reached the river’s edge and saw the water level was a good ten or fifteen feet below the concrete lip of the boardwalk. But his speed carried him out over the water. A screeching noise filled the air, and Knight twisted in mid-dive to see the return of the Crescent.

The plane sped into the Bund historical district, firing rockets and cannon fire at the street, where Knight had been seconds before. He looked back to the water just before he hit and saw Bishop bobbing in the slow current on the other side of the river. He didn’t see the cars exploding and flipping in the air behind him as the Crescent turned the street, and the creatures skittering over it, into a swath of white, meaty slop.

A roar ripped through the air.

Knight’s mind registered what it was and what it was about to do to his body.

He tensed.

But nothing happened as his head submerged beneath the murky, polluted water. The liquid muted the fear-inducing scream, protecting Knight from its effects.

When Knight surfaced to take a lungful of air, snapping his head back to fling his shoulder-length black hair out of his face, he heard the powerful detonations on the road behind him, but no longer heard the roar of the white creatures. The Crescent pulled up and banked, coming in to hover over the pickup point at Bin Jiang Park, opposite the bend in the river.

Knight stroked over to where Bishop waited, a million questions on his mind, but Bishop had had plenty of time to think of the answers and preempted him.

“They can’t swim or maybe just don’t want to. They didn’t follow me into this muck.” Bishop pointed down at the thick stew of brown swirling waters. At least the current wasn’t particularly strong. “I heard the start of that roar of theirs before going underwater, and it was enough for me. Aleman got in touch. Says the sound causes some kind of physiological reaction. Adrenaline dump into the heart to the point of paralysis. Could even kill you, if you got scared enough.”

“I can believe it,” Knight said, lowering his eyes.

“You caught the full blast,” Bishop said. It wasn’t a question. “I called in the airstrike. Deep Blue wants us to regroup and gear-up. Starting with getting you a new headset.” Bishop swam over and pulled Knight’s earpiece away from his head. Knight flinched from the move. Bishop looked at Knight without a word. He hadn’t missed the flinch.

Bishop held up Knight’s earpiece, and Knight could see that the plastic frame was damaged and a small wire was hanging out of it. He hadn’t even noticed.

“We need some kind of headsets that’ll protect us from that roar.” Bishop watched Knight, his generally implacable features filled with concern for his friend.

Knight held his gaze for a moment, then looked away, still treading water. “Let’s just say it was pretty fucking terrible, and leave it at that.”

“Yeah,” Bishop turned and stroked overhand for the shoreline. Knight followed him.

BISHOP CRAWLED ONTO a concrete boat launch and stood slowly, looking back across the river at the energy dome. Before his eyes, the dome closed in on itself, disappearing in seconds, until only a glowing dot was left at the center of its radius, like an old cathode-ray TV set, moving down into a tiny dot of light before turning off completely. Or was it just a trick of the eye?
An imprint left on my retina?

He reached down to help Knight out of the water. The little Korean man was usually so slick and self-assured. Not only was he a stellar sniper, but as a wealthy, well-dressed ladies’ man, his personality was the most confident on the team. But the sound of that roar had really rattled him.

Bishop felt more than a little rattled himself, but more so over how damn hard it had been to shoot the creatures. It was one thing to know that you could drop them with a .50 caliber round. But shooting something that moved in a blur? He shook his head. Wasn’t easy. He could hit them by firing in the path of their trajectory, but it was sloppy, wasted a lot of ammunition and he still missed the damn things more frequently than he hit them. Plus, the bastards hit like a freight train. He absently rubbed his right shoulder, which he had torqued when he rolled across the pavement after one of the creatures slammed into him.

“Nice timing,” he told Knight, and nodded with his head across the river, where the energy dome had been.

Knight looked across the river and sighed. “Think the thing is sentient?”

Bishop looked aghast. “The dome? No. Let’s hope not. The creatures are enough to deal with.”

They boarded the Crescent and took their seats, the vehicle launching them into the sky. Once they were at cruising altitude, Knight headed to the small galley on the ship, intending to fill up on protein. Bishop got in touch with Aleman and passed on their mission status, as well as his own personal observations about the dome.

When Knight came back, handing him a chocolate protein shake, Bishop gladly took it and leaned back in his chair, not looking at the little man. “Ale gave me good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

Knight considered a moment, slurping liquid protein through a straw. “The good, please.”

“He’s got some full-body armor suits waiting for us at the next hotspot, which should help protect us in hand-to-hand against those things. They’re not bullet-proof, but he says they’re made of impact-resistant memory foam. Not too bulky. Should give us a nice edge, especially if they barrel into us, like that one that knocked me across the taxi.”

“Nice,” Knight removed his straw and gulped the rest of his shake. “Where is the next location?”

“London. Ready for the bad news?”

“Not really, but hit me.”

“Our original destination was Cape Town, South Africa, but there wasn’t just one energy dome there. There was a whole cluster of them. Cape Town is gone. The whole city. Gone.”

“Damn,” Knight stretched the word out. “Clusters?” His face looked ashen, as if he had seen not just one ghost, but an entire convention of them.

TWENTY-THREE

Fenris Kystby, Norway

ZELDA BAKER, CALLSIGN: Queen, was out of ammunition. She had one more magazine for the M9, but she knew she’d never have time to load it. The thing at the end of the narrow corridor moved like lightning, leaping from wall to wall, floor to ceiling. She had fired 15 times and missed every shot but the last. Now, the thing stopped, hanging upside down from the ceiling. It looked at her through one of its baseball-sized eyeballs on the outside of its blocky head.

Queen had been expecting something strange since Rook had told her about the mind-controlled villagers and the Nazi experiments that had gone on in these labs. But she wasn’t prepared for this. It looked at least eight feet tall, but it crouched and sprang more like a cat than anything humanoid. Its translucent skin covered coiled muscles and an almost transparent white substance that looked to her like blood. Its claws, teeth and even the skull appeared clear, allowing her a view of its brain, which looked like congealed cottage cheese.

Definitely didn’t evolve on this planet, she thought.

Like the other members of Chess Team, Queen had faced unusual beasts before, but this one was odd. It had charged her at first, and she had fired all her bullets at the creature as it careened toward her. But then she hit it and it stopped.

Now it just looked at her.

She couldn’t tell if the creature was intelligent or not. Its oversized blocky head just remained fixed to the side. A lone bulbous eye locked on her face, the other looking in a different direction. Neither of them moved.

Maybe its vision is movement based?

She shifted her hand very slowly to the hilt of her KA-BAR knife—slow enough to not set off a motion detector. Her eyes never left the beast as her hand crept across her body.

The creature remained still.

Dust fell from the tunnel’s stone and brick ceiling, loosened by the recent bullet impacts and the holes punched by the creature’s claws. Loose streams of sandy soil poured down from cracks in the ceiling, too. Not so much that she thought the tunnel would collapse, but enough that the grit would get in her eyes if she moved.

Is that it? she wondered.

She decided to wait the thing out, staying absolutely still until it did something. Her fingers grasped the non-slip handle of the 7 inch knife, ready to pull it from its sheath and go to work on the creature.

But it didn’t move. The creature waited, too. She watched it and noticed that the dust was settling and the streams of grit stopped falling.

The creature tilted its head to the side.

Queen still held the M9 in her left hand—useless weight. Or is it? Queen’s eyes went up to the ceiling again, and then she slowly moved her gun hand, but not as slowly as she had moved the knife hand. She wanted to see if the beast would notice the movement.

As soon as she moved her hand, the beast turned its head again. The round eyes locked onto the movement. Queen smiled. When she moved her hand, it had been backward, as if cocking her arm for a throw. She launched the empty M9 at the ceiling between her and the creature, where it waited on the ceiling. The creature began to move toward the flying weapon, but then the gun struck the weakened brick ceiling. A cloud of dust and dirt spurted from the ceiling before the pistol smashed to the floor, sending up another plume of dust.

Queen took two quick steps forward and to the side, but the creature’s eye didn’t swivel in her direction. It remained perfectly still as it had done before.

The dirty air confuses it. Her eyes widened. They use some kind of sonar, like a bat, she guessed. The eyes must not work as well as they appear to. Maybe low light blindness. So they compensate with sonar. But sonar is no good if the air is full of debris. Sensory overload.

She took two more steps forward, but this time moved closer to the center of the tunnel, and directly behind the stream of sand and dry dirt trickling from the ceiling. She took one more step right up to the dust, so the stream of dirt was coming right down in front of her face. The upside-down monster hung less than a yard from her position on the other side of the little falling soil.

Queen raised her knife.

The creature’s eye twitched in her direction.

The stream of soil slowed—her only cover, about to be gone. Queen abandoned caution and leapt forward, the wicked blade of the KA-BAR leading as she burst through the trickle of dust and plunged the knife into the creature’s eye.

The knife slid into the creature’s clear skull, up to the hilt, from the force of her thrust. She pushed until the beast’s body toppled over. She didn’t release her pressure on the knife until she felt the tip of the blade strike the stone floor.

She squatted next to the creature and wondered what it could be. She was about to remove the blade from the dead thing when a small skittering sound came from down the tunnel behind her. She withdrew the blade with agonizing slowness. Have to make it like I’m not even moving.

A rock rolled across the floor and hit the wall of the tunnel with a loud clacking noise.

Queen drew in a breath.

The newcomer was less than ten feet behind her. The blade of the knife came free and Queen spun in a whirl, raising the knife for another killing stroke.

But that stroke never came. Instead came a noise. A roaring vibration like a hundred jet aircraft in her head.

Her arms turned to limp spaghetti.

The knife fell from her hand.

Her legs quivered and her teeth chattered.

Her eyes watered and a thick river of drool slipped from her mouth. She never saw the second beast. Its roar filled her world, and her eyes clamped shut trying to force out the terror, but as she fell to the ground, her whole body shaking like an epileptic in the throes of a seizure, she could utter only two words:

“Daddy, no!”

TWENTY-FOUR

Manhattan Island, NY

3 November, 0630 Hrs

MAJOR GENERAL MICHAEL Keasling’s permanent scowl didn’t alter when he saw the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter settle in the middle of the cordoned-off city street, but he did breathe a sigh of relief as its rotor blades whipped dust and grit into the sky. The situation in New York hadn’t gotten out of hand yet, but he knew it would. He had 200 men out of Fort Dix, and another 200 on the way, but he knew they wouldn’t be sufficient for this mess. He also suspected the two men emerging from the helicopter might not make much difference against such an alien threat. Still, these two men were among the most capable soldiers he had ever known, and they were both his friends.

Keasling absently raised the fingers of one hand and stroked the smooth skin under his nose, where he had worn a mustache for most of the last twenty years. With the recent receipt of his second star, he’d made a few simple but profound changes in his life. No more coffee and more time in the gym for one—although with his short, stocky barrel shape, he’d been muscular enough. He wasn’t looking to become more intimidating but to increase his lifespan with cardiovascular exercises he hadn’t bothered with since long before he had become a General. His wife was long in the grave from the cancer, but his daughter had just had her first little blonde-haired son, Liam, and Keasling now wanted to live long enough to see the boy become a man. Funny how family changes everything, he thought.

The loss of the mustache wasn’t as physically life changing as the exercise, but he found his hand returning to the lack of it repeatedly, as if the loss of hair signified this new phase in his life as much as it reduced the appearance of his age by a decade. As the two men approached him on 6th Avenue, and the helicopter took to the dawn sky behind them, Keasling thought about the chaos of the present situation and wondered, not for the first time since he had received his second star, if maybe it was time to stop. He knew he never would, though. The vicious cycle of thought further fueled his gruff demeanor as he stepped forward to greet his friends.

“King, you look like the fucking Michelin Man.”

Both of the recently arrived men were dressed in personal body armor suits that looked to Keasling like they were wearing sculpted pillows on their bodies. The General knew the suits were an extension of research carried out by the Pentagon and a Canadian man that started out making a suit impervious to grizzly bear attacks. Lewis Aleman’s genius had been further applied to the designs and the result was an incredibly lightweight, tactical battle-suit, which, while it would not stop a large-caliber bullet, would significantly reduce damage from impacts, falls and knife—or in this case, claw—attacks. Keasling’s people in the Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) had been involved in the Pentagon’s end of development on the suit, so he was aware of its capabilities. He understood the necessity of such body armor. Still, they looked like the Tempur-Pedic memory foam pillow he used during the few hours of sleep he got at night.

The suits had multiple sculpted angles that resembled the boxy radar-reflective surfaces of stealth aircraft, and the color scheme for the entirety of the suits was a grayish black, reinforcing the similarity. Both men wore full-face-mask helmets that kept their identities hidden as well, but Keasling knew each man by his gait.

“General,” Deep Blue said from behind his armored faceplate. “If King is the Michelin Man, what does that make me?”

“Very dignified and presidential, sir.”

“I was going to say my valet,” King started, “but dignified works too.”

“Show some respect, Delta Boy,” Keasling said, but he was smiling as he said it. King and his Chess Team cohorts were all former Delta, and they were used to a level of informality and a lack of ranks not approved of in other branches of the service. However, in just a few short years, Keasling had gone from being constantly irritated at the informality to having immense respect for Jack Sigler. The two men had become close friends.

He shook hands with both men, noting with approval how supple the gloves on the suits were. While still padded with a thin layer of the experimental armor material, the fingers would still be able to operate triggers and even keyboards if necessary.

“Sorry about the switch to the chopper, but Persephone would have trouble with how tight the buildings are in Midtown. Plus, no easy rooftops for VTOL nearby, like you had in Chicago. There’s crap all over the roofs here.” The general led the other men up 6th, along the sidewalk.

“No problem. We came in low from Jersey and couldn’t see much. How bad is it here?” Deep Blue asked the general as they began walking up to West 49th, where soldiers from Fort Dix stood and crouched behind sandbags, weapons trained down the street.

“Well, let’s just say that I’ve been wondering whether it’s too late to join the Peace Corps and get assigned to the ass-end of Botswana. I can tell you it was no damn fun getting all the civilians out of these buildings in this part of town. NYPD played a big part in that, but it would have been impossible later in the day.”

The men rounded the corner of a small concrete-bordered city-planning park with about ten trees, all still tenaciously clinging to their orange leaves before winter’s inevitable pull. Beyond it stood five abandoned hot dog carts with brightly colored umbrellas. Keasling’s stomach rumbled at the thought of wolfing down a few dogs with brown mustard and sauerkraut. They turned onto West 49th Street and saw an empty road, cordoned off a few bocks west, down the narrow corridor of tall buildings before them. Steam gently seeped up from manhole sewer covers on the asphalt, and a discarded sheet of crumpled, dirty newspaper caught an errant breeze and wafted along the street, wrapping around the leg of a squat black fire hydrant with a silver top on the other side of the street.

“Where—?” King began, his voice thick through the built in voice modulator on his helmet.

“Up gentlemen, up.” Keasling said more forcefully than necessary. The situation was wearing on his nerves.

His armored companions slowly titled their heads up and took in the sight.

The Cobra Head streetlamps, stretched into their view, but otherwise, all they could see were two glass-walled skyscrapers reaching into the sky on either side of the road. The one on the right reached to 750 feet and the one on the left went almost as high, to 675 feet. But the building on their right had a glowing energy sphere embedded in it, close to the top. The globe of light stretched across the 100 foot gap between the buildings, over the street and just barely kissed the edge of the building on the left. The ball of light floated in the sky, with the right third of it clawing into the taller building. The globe was steady and solid, with none of the lightning effects Keasling had seen in video footage of the Chicago event.

“Gentlemen, the building on your right is the Exxon Building. The X part of the so-called ‘XYZ buildings’ of Rockefeller Center. The building on the left is McGraw Hill. The Y. Far as we can tell, the event does not actually touch the Y building, although it does look like it from where we are standing. The Exxon Building has 54 floors and floors 38 to 51 are inside the affected area. The elevators are just clear of the effect, though, so we can still get up top if we need to. I’ve got men in the Y building just opposite the curving wall of light, ready to fire if needed. No one in the X building though. If the creatures show up, I don’t want my boys too close.” Keasling turned to face Deep Blue and King in their armor. “They haven’t got pillow suits on.”

Deep Blue kept his head tilted upward, looking at the floating ball of light jammed between the two glass skyscrapers.

King lowered his head and looked at the General. “I think we’re going to need that helicopter to come back.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

3 November, 1300 Hrs

EIREK FOSSEN WAS so close to his freedom, he could taste it.

He sat behind a desk in one of the offices looking at three, side-by-side, 17-inch monitors. He had divided each screen into four windows displaying video footage from major world news stations. The volume on all of them was off, but he didn’t need it to understand what was happening around the world. Portals were opening up. Shanghai. Chicago. Los Angeles. Istanbul. Kinshasa. Lima. Mumbai. The portals, and the pack of dire wolves that came from them, were devouring entire cities.

It was all too delicious.

He leaned back in the tilting office chair and one after the other, placed his lower legs diagonally atop the corner of the desk. He slipped his hands behind his head and prepared to enjoy one hell of a show. A portal had even opened up halfway up a set of skyscrapers in New York. He would have liked to see some of the footage of action on the ground—the dire wolves ripping into people—but none of the camera operators could get that close to the conflagrations for more than a second or two without being shredded themselves.

The door to the office opened, and Fossen looked up. Nathalie Schröder was Fossen’s assistant. She was young, at 25, but highly capable. She had a brilliant mind for the math involved in their undertaking, and she was equally good with electrical engineering. She wore a lab coat, and her dark hair was back in a ponytail. Her father had worked for the project before her. Fossen liked her, but she had been asking the wrong kind of questions lately.

“How are the power readings?” he asked her.

“Good,” she said, looking down at her tablet PC. “The turbines have collected a surplus and we should be ready for another test.”

“How long has it been since the last test?” Fossen interrupted her.

She tapped a few times at her tablet. “Five hours. I have the statistics now. It was at 98% stability and generated over 12 gigawatts at one point, but I think we can go higher—”

Fossen waved his hand cutting her off. “I don’t need the details. As long as we are at 98%, that’s all that is important.”

He let his eyes drift back to the screens with the scenes of destruction.

Schröder looked over his shoulder and cleared her throat. She spoke softly. “We still have no control over the global portals. They are definitely a byproduct of the experiment, but as you can see, they open at random intervals and geographic locations. There are far more of them than we ever expected.”

“I know. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“People are dying,” she said. “Far more than was projected.”

Fossen stood up from the chair, staring at her. Schröder lowered her eyes to the floor. “We knew this when we began, yes? Opening and maintaining the portal was always going to have side effects. One collateral portal or a hundred, it makes no difference.”

“But so many people—” she began again.

“Do not matter!” Fossen finished for her. “If after all this time you are having doubts about the project, if your faith is wavering...you can go.”

Schröder raised her eyes to him, hopefully. “You would let me leave?” Then more furtively, “It would let me leave?”

Fossen grimaced as though pinched, but quickly forced a smile. “If your heart is not in it, Nathalie, you have no place here. You’ve already performed your part. The system is self-sustaining now. If you want to leave, go.”

She looked him in the eye, relief washing over her. “Thank you, Eirek.”

Schröder turned to make for the door.

Fossen drew a Walther pistol from his lab coat pocket and shot her twice in the back of her head. The bullets went through her at such a close range they chewed holes into the wood of the door beyond her. Her skull detonated like a popping water balloon, before her legs gave out and her body dropped to the floor.

“You are welcome. They are not people. They are sheep, waiting for the wolf.”

An intercom on the wall came to life with a clicking noise.

“What is it?” Fossen asked, disgust in his voice as if the shooting was the latest in a never-ending series of distractions and interruptions.

“Security, sir. We have intruders. The dire wolves have them cornered.” The voice said through the intercom with a thick slur, as if the man attached to it was on drugs.

“I want them alive. I’ll be right there.” Fossen got up from his chair and made for the door to the chamber.

Oh Stanislav, you should not have come back.

TWENTY-SIX

Pinckney Bible Campground, NH

3 November, 0700 Hrs

GEORGE PIERCE SAT atop a brown picnic table with his feet propped on the bench. Pierce knew the campground would fill with people in the summer, but right now, he was the only human being in sight. When Chess Team fought the monstrosity Manifold Genetics had created from the original Greek Hydra a few years back, the battle destroyed parts of the campground.

After the fight, Deep Blue had arranged for the Army to take over the entire area, while Hazmat teams cleaned up the secret Manifold facility hidden under the mountains behind the campground. Then they had the base refurbished and refitted to house Chess Team and its extended support crew, now collectively dubbed Endgame.

Pierce had assisted in the project at the time, before he was formally a member of Endgame. Finally, once the base was finished and operational, its secret entrance in the mountain sufficiently concealed again, Deep Blue had accepted Pierce’s suggestion of restoring the campground itself. After all, the public would become wary if a supposed chemical spill was being ‘cleaned up’ by the Army, but once that process was completed, they didn’t turn the land back over to the public. The last thing Endgame wanted was more scrutiny from the public. Besides, the base sprawled underground over miles. There were other entrances and exits, which afforded more privacy, and which did not require movement through a formerly public area.

Still, when Pierce felt the crushing claustrophobia of the underground base weighing on him, he liked to slip out of the vehicle entrance located behind the campground, and come out here to think.

He was exhausted, after spending all night researching Norse mythology. It wasn’t his field, and there was so very much to learn, although he had found little in reference to the dire wolves. In addition, the dire wolf roar had rendered him nearly useless for much of the night. He still suffered the terrifying visions that the sound induced in him, but they had lessened in their intensity, and he knew them to be nothing more than echoes of his hallucination.

Carrack had later told him he had fled the computer room at the sound of the roar, but Pierce had no memory of that. What he saw when the dire wolf roar had assaulted them over the speakers of the room, before Aleman had been able to switch off the audio, was worse than anything his mind could come up with in a normal nightmare.

And George Pierce had plenty of nightmares.

When Chess Team had gone up against Manifold a few years earlier, Pierce, much like Bishop, had been tortured and experimented upon. But unlike Bishop, Pierce had received DNA directly from the Hydra sample. His skin had changed into a green and scaly substance. He had been half-man and half-reptile by the time Manifold finished with him. The nonhuman genes attached to his body were eventually blocked and he had suffered no relapses. But the bad dreams had taken far longer to go away than his skin had taken to slough and repair itself.

Pierce sighed and watched his breath in the cool morning air. Some might say chilly, but he had quickly acclimatized to the cold, despite his years spent in Greece and even in the humidity of Peru. His hallucinatory reaction to the dire wolf roar still haunted him. It was far worse than any Hydra nightmare he had yet to experience. He’d seen Julie, King’s deceased sister, his fiancée who had died long ago in a fighter jet accident—except it hadn’t been her. It was Julie as she would have been if she’d been the one Manifold infected. She wore a flight suit and her skin had the same sickly green scaly look that Pierce’s had when he was altered by the Hydra DNA.

It was so real, he thought. I could smell her.

He hadn’t run from the computer center as Carrack had said. The monstrous Julie had chased him from the room in his hallucination.

She was going to eat me.

Julie’s death had initially led to Pierce and King falling out of touch. The Hydra incident, which had begun with Pierce on an archeological dig site in Nazca, had brought them back together. Pierce’s ordeal cemented their friendship.

He took another sip of the now cool coffee and vowed never to tell King about the hallucination. It was simply too terrible, and Jack Sigler had enough to deal with.

Pierce took a deep breath and closed his eyes, bringing his mind back to the present. Soft footsteps approached him from behind. He turned and opened his eyes to see Anna Beck striding toward him from the direction of the base’s concealed door.

Beck, callsign: Black Zero, was Deep Blue’s right-hand woman. Ostensibly, the man’s bodyguard, she did far more fieldwork for Endgame. She was dating Knight, Pierce knew, or he might have asked the woman out. She was cute, although not stunningly beautiful. But she was tough and had a razor-sharp wit that often manifested in blistering sarcasm. Pierce liked her.

Beck walked across the yellowing grass. Her brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail, swayed as she walked. She wore her customary all-black military battle-dress uniform, and strapped to her leg was her ever-present sidearm. Pierce had asked her once why she was always armed. Her answer had been that the base creeped her out.

After the facility had been attacked by Manifold agents, before its restoration was complete, Pierce could understand that. Although Matt Carrack, callsign: White Zero, was officially in charge of security at the base, Pierce knew that Beck played a significant part in stopping the Manifold incursion. They had lost several security members of the team during that incident—the soldiers formerly known as White Two through White Five. Pierce understood afterward that was the reason Deep Blue had insisted on naming the White and Black team members with numbers. It would be harder on Chess Team field personnel to get attached to their support members. Replacing their identities with numbers would lessen the focus of the field team on the loss of these team members in emergencies. They were expendable. Pierce realized the strategy hadn’t worked completely, especially when he saw that Knight and Beck had become a thing. Still, Pierce was glad he hadn’t been given a numbered callsign.

“What’s up?” he called to Beck.

“Aleman wants everyone back for a meeting.”

Pierce leapt up and strode over to her, tossing the remaining cold coffee from his cup into a nearby pine tree and shaking the drips out onto the grass as they walked.

“Everyone?” he asked.

She looked at him with a grim expression. “Yeah. Even Boucher is going to be on the call. Then I’m off to Norway as soon as we’re done.” Domenick Boucher was the current director of the CIA, and although Pierce hadn’t met the man, he knew that Boucher was an Endgame ally in the US government.

“Norway? You’re going after Rook?” Pierce asked.

“Yeah. Him and Queen both. We need everyone for this mess.”

They entered the vehicle entrance in the mountain and rapidly descended to the lowest level of the part of the base christened Labs. The main computer lab was a ten-minute ride away by underground tram, in a different section of the expansive base known as Central. They sat silently on the tram, each lost in their own thoughts. Once at Central, they proceeded to the main computer lab down quiet corridors.

The main screen showed a view from Deep Blue’s helmet of the massive energy globe suspended above Manhattan. Aleman was in his customary jeans and t-shirt, straddling the futuristic workstation in the center of the room. Sara Fogg stood with baggy eyes in a corner, leaning against a wall. Seated next to her was King’s adopted daughter, Fiona, who wore a Disney t-shirt and pajama bottoms, and sleepily ate a colorful breakfast cereal from a porcelain bowl. Her striking Native American facial features were partially obscured by a thick shock of her long black hair that had managed to escape her ponytail. She leaned her head against Fogg’s hip. Pierce was pleased to see how well King’s ‘family’ was working out for the man.

Matt Carrack leaned against another wall, wearing his usual forest-pattern BDUs. The other five members of the White security team were standing next to him and looking anxious. No doubt, Carrack had already briefed the men on the severity of the situation worldwide. Each man was a crack soldier from the alpine 10th Mountain division at Fort Drum. Pierce had yet to learn any of their names or even speak to them. He had made that mistake with the last batch of White Team members, and now they were all dead.

Pierce knew the two White Team scientists in the room, but they were easy to recognize from their white lab coats. White Six was an unusually tall, gangly man. At just under seven feet tall, Six had to duck his head when going through most of the doors in the base. Ironically, the tall man with the dark mop of black shaggy hair hated sports. Especially basketball. When he wasn’t working on chemical analyses for Endgame, the man was building models from toothpicks and popsicle sticks. The structures were incredibly intricate, and when Six chose to design something recognizable, like the Eiffel Tower, the structures were meticulously accurate to every detail. Pierce had joked with the man that he had missed his calling as an architect. Six’s serious response was simply “I know.” But Pierce liked the gentle giant.

White Seven, the other scientist on the team, was a short, burly man with a gruff demeanor. Pierce rarely spoke to the man, but was impressed by the scientist’s wide knowledge of everything but social graces.

The White Team was completed by a weapons expert named Reggie. Reggie was technically callsign: White Eight, but despite Deep Blue’s admonition that White and Black support team members each keep their names to themselves and use only their callsigns, Reggie had introduced himself to everyone at the base as Reggie, so the name had stuck. He was the consummate joker, but the sort whose jokes were more frequently directed at himself. Everyone liked the man. Plus, he knew everything there was to know about every weapon they had on the base. Reggie certainly destroyed any stereotypes Pierce had had about weapons training experts. He pictured most of them to be hard-assed drill instructor types, and he wasn’t surprised to discover that King had thought much the same. Reggie was also the only one around to best King at horseshoes up on the campground.

On the other side of the room, the Black Team was under-represented, because half of them—the pilots, callsigns: Black One through Black Four—were currently out in the field. Two mechanics that repaired the team’s helicopters and the Crescent were present. Both men wore bib overalls, and both tended to keep to themselves. Pierce had seen them around the base a few times. They were both short and skinny men, with grease caked under their fingernails from a lifetime of mechanical work. Both men were dark haired, and Pierce occasionally wondered if they were brothers. The men were callsigns: Black Seven and Black Eight.

Black Five was an overweight man of at least sixty years old. Deep Blue had introduced Pierce to the man only a few weeks earlier. Balding and always wearing half-moon glasses, Black Five probably looked older than he was. When Pierce had seen him, he was neck deep in computer programs, on the phone or both. Deep Blue had introduced Black Five as an intelligence analyst, but he had been recruited because he also had a Ph.D. in physics. Deep Blue liked team members to pull double duty, which was why Pierce was expanding his expertise into general history and even paleontology, should dinosaurs ever emerge from Antarctica. Sounded ridiculous, but the ridiculous was kind of their thing.

Black Five stood against the wall, speaking softly to a man Pierce had never met. But Pierce knew this wiry, muscular man in the charcoal suit could only be one person. Black Six was the team’s only former Central Intelligence Agency member. He was a field operative. The team’s very own spy, like James Bond. But due to the nature of his work, he was usually in the field. Pierce had, until this moment, only heard of the man, and never actually laid eyes on him. Black Six was younger than Pierce might have thought—perhaps in his mid twenties. He had a strong jaw and blue eyes, but the cut of his hair was a bit long, and Pierce could easily picture the man sliding undercover as an executive one week and as a surfer the next.

Lewis Aleman cleared his throat.

“We’ve got General Keasling, Deep Blue and King on the line in New York. Bishop, Knight and Black One and Two are also online as they transit to Europe. Mr. Boucher, is on the call from DC. I have the rest of Endgame here with me. Here’s the situation as we have it so far.

“We’re dealing with a threat unlike anything we’ve seen before. I’m afraid most of the news I have is pretty grim…”

“Lewis,” Deep Blue interrupted. “Let’s start with the bad news.”

“Okay,” Lewis said, looking down at the floor. When he looked up again, sorrow hid behind his eyes. “The world is going to end in four days.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Endgame Headquarters, White Mountains, NH

3 November, 0715 Hrs

COMPLETE SILENCE FOLLOWED. Pierce watched as jaws dropped around the room.

“Come again, Aleman. Did you say the world was going to end in four days?” Deep Blue’s voice sounded rattled.

“That’s what I said. The portals are stabilizing and appearing with more regularity around the world.” Aleman sounded tired, but certain.

“Portals?” Pierce recognized the gruff voice of General Keasling.

“Yes, General. King accidentally entered one in Chicago and came out again.”

“I was only in contact with the portal for a few seconds,” King’s voice came through the speaker as clearly as if he were in the room, and Pierce found himself suddenly missing his friend. “But all I saw was darkness and multiple tangos coming at me before I was swept out by the parachute.”

“Yeah, King,” Aleman continued his briefing, “I’ve been giving that a lot of thought and cross-referencing it against all our other data on these things. Everything fired inside the portals hasn’t come back out. Your F-16 crashed into one and we didn’t see a sign of it after that. You came back out of one alive though. We’re definitely looking at a portal.”

“To, uh, to what Aleman?” Pierce recognized the always-cautious voice of Domenick Boucher, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and one of only a few people left in the current administration that knew of the existence of Chess Team and the entire Endgame organization. “If these energy balls are portals, then portals to what? To where?”

“That is the question, Mr. Boucher. My best guess, based on the information available, is...to another dimension.”

Boucher scoffed on the other end of the call. “Another dimension? Like in Star Trek or something? You can’t be serious.”

“Dom…” Deep Blue’s voice was stern, and the message was clear: Give the man a chance to explain and the benefit of the doubt. Besides being the leader of Endgame, no one on the call would ever forget that this man was also formerly the leader of the free world.

“Sorry, Lewis. Please explain.” Boucher sounded as tired as Pierce felt, and he imagined the Director was up to his neck in briefings of his own, trying to explain to the new President what the hell was going on around the world.

“Theories of other dimensions have been around for a long time. Basically, what you need to do is imagine a bright red shiny ball. The ball is sitting on the ground and it’s casting a shadow. The shadow on the ground is—”

Black Five cleared his throat loudly, cutting Aleman off. He raised an index finger and stepped forward. “Sorry, but that’s a horrible explanation.”

“It was—”

Aleman was cut off again. “Accurate? Maybe. Understandable? Hardly. In layman’s terms, alternate dimensions are multiple possible universes, otherwise known as the multiverse. But there are just as many theories about how it’s possible as there are probably universes. Tegmark’s four-level classification, anthropic principle, cyclic models and my personal favorite, M-Theory, which would be impossible to explain to any of you in a timely manner, unless you all have a working knowledge of p-branes.”

For a moment, Pierce thought that Black Five had just insulted them, but realized that wasn’t the case when the man continued without cracking a smile.

“And no one knows which theory is correct, because we have, until now, never had any tangible evidence that they exist beyond the numeric musings of mathematicians and the insistence of Star Trek fans. However, most theories agree that these alternate dimensions could look very similar to our own, with alternate versions of ourselves living similar if not nearly identical lives to our own, but that they could also be very different. Alternate dimensions don’t just affect humanity. They affect everything right back to the beginning of time. In some dimensions there might not be an Earth, or even a Milky Way galaxy. In others, Earth might exist, but maybe the dinosaurs never went extinct, or the moon was never formed, or life evolved in a way that is totally alien to our Earth, which I believe is what we’re seeing here. The creatures have similar features—eyes, teeth, limbs, claws—things that we recognize as being advantageous to living on planet Earth. But they’re also quite different, which means their Earth is likely quite different. How, I couldn’t speculate.

“It’s even possible that the laws of physics are different there. Human beings are designed to perceive things in only three dimensions. An alternate dimension might simply be a fourth dimension that co-exists but is separated from our own simply because we can’t perceive or experience it. Those that subscribe to this theory believe it to be the root of most ghost stories and poltergeists—glimpses into mirror dimensions caused by gravitational anomalies. Of course, that’s irrelevant. The point is, a human being might view an alternate dimension in a distorted, or skewed way, because our perceptions are limited to experiencing three dimensions controlled by our universe’s laws of physics.”

“I saw something on the other side of that portal,” King said through the speakers in the room.

“You said it was mostly dark, right?” Aleman asked. “If Black Five is right, perhaps light doesn’t work there like it does in our dimension.”

“Or it was just night,” Black Five said with a twitch of his lips.

King sighed. “Right.”

“What does all this information give us? What are we dealing with?” General Keasling’s voice was gruffer than normal, the grav-elly scraping of his voice reminded Pierce of just how long it had been since they had each slept.

“It’s all moot, actually,” Deep Blue interjected. “We need to find a way to stop the portals from opening or to stop the creatures from coming through them.”

“On that front, I have some ideas,” Aleman said. “Fogg and Pierce and I feel convinced from 10th-century evidence that the planet has seen these creatures before. How many times, I can’t say, but there is a historical record. We believe the creatures are what the Norse first called dire wolves. We’re still working on finding out how and when the portals closed in the past, as well as efficient ways to kill them.”

Bishop’s meaty voice came through the speaker next. “They can be killed. They’re just fast. Enclosed spaces or battlefields with obstacles are our best bet. If they get up to speed, they’re hard to hit.”

Aleman spoke up again. “And their roar is devastating.”

“Any theories on that?” Deep Blue asked.

“Just one,” Aleman said. “Infrasound.”

“Which is?” King asked.

“Any sound lower than twenty hertz, which is right at the fringe of what human ears can hear. For us to hear it, the sound pressure would have to be significant.”

“It’s significant,” Knight added.

“At the right volume, we would actually be able to feel the sound as much as hear it. Several studies I found, published and unpublished, suggest that a seventeen-hertz infrasound, with enough punch, can induce strong feelings of fear. Test subjects reported powerful anxiety, extreme sorrow, revulsion and terror. Physical symptoms ranged from goose bumps to loose bowels, which might have also been a physical effect caused by the low frequency vibrations, rather than an emotional response. As for the hallucinations, they’re probably caused by the adrenaline and other chemicals dumped into the body by the fear response, but it’s worth noting that the resonant frequency of the human eye, according to NASA, is eighteen hertz. Pegging someone with this frequency can cause optical illusions, visual hallucinations and are one of the leading theories for ghost sightings. If they’re pegging multiple frequencies at once, the effects match.”

“That sounds about right,” Knight added. “Good to know I’m not a wuss.”

King, who was the only field team member to be unaffected by the dire wolf roar, was unperturbed. “So if we hear it, we’ll either fight harder or run away? Not that big of a problem.”

“Oh, but it is, King,” Sara Fogg stepped toward the center of the room to speak. Pierce noted that her eyes were still baggy, but her face had come alive at a chance to participate in the conversation on a medical topic, with which she could relate. He also noted that she remembered to use his operational callsign, instead of calling him Jack. “In a life-threatening situation, the human ‘fight-or-flight’ response involves an involuntary increased heart rate, increased blood flow to the muscles, pupil dilation and a whole host of other symptoms. You won’t be at your fighting best, and what’s worse, adrenaline dumps into your lungs, your liver, kidneys and heart. With the dire wolf roar activating such a heightened fight-or-flight, your heart could seize up with adrenaline and crash. You’d drop dead just like with the Brugada strain from a few years ago. The dire wolf roar can actually scare you to death.”

Deep Blue cleared his throat. “Lewis, you said you have a plan for dealing with the dire wolves?”

Aleman replied without hesitation. “Yes sir, I think we should nuke them.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

London, England

3 November, 1600 Hrs

“THAT’S NOT GOOD.”

Bishop tilted his head to the side and looked out the open door of the Crescent, as it hovered on its thrumming VTOL engines. Rain lashed the late afternoon London sky, but both he and Knight had a perfect view of the River Thames and the 443-foot tall white Ferris wheel, known as the London Eye. The bizarre cantilevered support struts and several of the steel tie rods of the structure were hidden inside a large crackling dire wolf portal that covered over a fourth of the surface of the wheel. Both Bishop and Knight understood that when the portal winked out, it would take the central hub of the giant structure with it.

But that wasn’t what had caused Bishop’s comment.

Despite the lousy overcast weather, the ride—one of the largest tourist attractions in Europe that saw 3.5 million visitors a year—had been full when the portal appeared out of thin air. As the Crescent moved the men into position above the wheel, they saw hundreds of passengers from the remaining egg-shaped capsules around the edges of the wheel. A storm of brightly colored tourists attempted to climb down the superstructure after having freed themselves from their steel-and-Plexiglas prisons. Some were still trapped in their capsules. They frantically hammered on the glass as they watched the immense sphere of pulsing light engulf the wheel like Pac Man gobbling up tasty snacks. Bishop noted that some of the people were leaping to the river far below them from the upper reaches of the rim, almost 400 feet above the water.

Others leapt off the ride on the other side—to the concrete pedestrian path and the trees, which were turning dark red from the frequent human impacts.

The panicked tourists fled in terror as the portal disgorged its swarm of milky white occupants. Hundreds of dire wolves leapt out of the yellow wall of light. Many of them lunged up the London Eye’s struts and scampered across its surface like manic children on a playground.

“Get me close, Black One. Now!” Bishop shouted into his helmet microphone to the pilot of the Crescent and readied a rappelling line at the door. Their plan had been to keep the creatures at bay as much as possible while the Ministry of Defense arranged to get a small nuclear device to them. Domenick Boucher had handled convincing the US President of the plan to drop a nuclear device inside a portal with a timer. The device would be shut off by remote control if the timer ticked down and the portal hadn’t shut. If it did close, as all of the portals had done so far, then the device would detonate, hopefully stopping the dire wolf incursion. A device would be attempted both here in London and in New York. The US President convinced the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom only an hour before the Crescent arrived. As far as both the US and the UK were concerned, Bishop and Knight were US Delta members, acting on US orders—not independent operators.

No one liked deceiving the President, but all involved agreed that a typical Special Forces unit would be a liability. While other soldiers would still be reacting to the freakish events unfolding around them and the dire wolves trying to tear them apart, Chess Team would be acting. They had grown accustomed to the strange and horrible, and weren’t distracted by it. Deep Blue and General Keasling had agreed that they would deal with the political ramifications after this event, if they lived through it. Boucher had concurred and the plan was set in motion. If Bishop and Knight failed, King and Deep Blue would attempt the same strategy in New York or in the next event location.

But after seeing the chaos up close, Bishop was not content to sit and wait for the device to arrive with its British couriers.

Knight squatted in the open doorway, one arm looped through a nylon safety strap on the door’s edge. He knelt to the floor of the doorway and began picking off targets. He was using a new rifle—a Barrett M82 he had snagged from an armaments closet on the Crescent after they had boarded in Shanghai. He knew he wouldn’t find a better vantage point for sniping the dire wolves than right where he was—above them on the gently hovering troop transport plane.

Even with the new helmet he wore, equipped with sound dampener technology to protect him from hearing the roar of the dire wolves, Bishop could still feel a vibration every time Knight took a shot with the .50 caliber rifle. The climbing creatures moved slower than they did on the ground; Knight had no problem executing them one by one. Still, no matter how quickly Knight fired, more of the dire wolves darted from the portal. Bishop was tempted to open fire with his newly replaced XM312-B as well, but he couldn’t risk hitting tourists. He needed to get down onto the Eye.

Bishop looked down at Knight, who wore one of the impact-absorbent suits. It seemed to double his size. If Knight looks big, I must look like the Goodyear Blimp.

Bishop hated the helmet. The sound dampener allowed him to hear nothing but his own breathing and he found the faceplate’s view limiting. With more time, they could have had helmets that only blocked certain frequencies, but time was short, so they blocked everything, and it just about drove him nuts. Still, he wore it for protection against the fear-inducing roar. Better to have limited eyesight than to bolt in fear from a dire wolf only to realize, like Wile E. Coyote, that he had run off a cliff—or in this case, off the top of the London Eye.

He leaned down and placed his hand on Knight’s shoulder, then rocked the man slightly—a tap to the shoulder would do no good with the armor. Knight quickly retracted from the doorway, allowing Bishop to exit the craft.

With two MP5 submachine guns stretched across his chest and the XM312-B across his broad, armored back, Bishop leapt out the door, splaying the 11 mm black rappelling rope out his titanium belay device at his waist. The rope ran through his gloved fingers. He cleared the Crescent and began his drop toward the Eye.

Black One piloted the transport ship just above the wheel’s curvature. As Bishop descended, controlling the rappel with one hand, he swept an MP5 up and began pummeling dire wolves with bullets.

In thirty seconds, he was down on the top of one of the abandoned capsules that sat parked hundreds of feet above the river. Most of the passengers were below him now, so Bishop took the opportunity to fire wildly, taking out dire wolf after dire wolf, sometimes with only a grazing shot, but enough of an impact to send the target tumbling.

The rain wasn’t helping either. Bishop lay down on his stomach on top of an abandoned capsule to cut the wind and rain against his body. He hadn’t detached from the rope yet, and decided not to. Instead, he crawled forward to the end of the egg-shaped passenger compartment’s roof and began to slide over its end toward a precipitous fall. With one hand on the rope, he allowed some slack to spool out. He grabbed the lip with his other hand and swung down and into the empty carriage, dropping to the floor. The rain spatting on the faceplate of his helmet and the wind pushing his armored body let up immediately. The view was fantastic, and Bishop knew that on a clear day you could see almost 25 miles. Today the visibility was not that good, but he could still see several more of the glowing portals that had opened in various parts of the city.

The center of the capsule had a white roof, but the ends of the egg shape were all windows. The end he’d come through had a set of double doors that retracted to the sides like in an elevator. A designer wooden bench filled the center of the space. Bishop knew from a previous visit in calmer times that the egg-shaped air-conditioned capsule rotated as the wheel moved, but at such a minimal speed that passengers barely felt the rotation. In fact, it moved so slowly that the huge Ferris wheel never stopped turning—tourists simply stepped into and out of the slow moving capsules at ground level. One complete revolution of the wheel took about a half an hour. But now the wheel wasn’t turning at all. Bishop guessed the operators must have hit an emergency stop before fleeing from the spectacle of the besieged Ferris wheel.

He was glad the wheel wasn’t moving, because it made aiming at the dire wolves easier. He lay down on the floor of the capsule, sliding his body next to the bench, with the barrel of his XM312-B pointing at one of the lower side windows under a pane with a huge British Airways logo in red and blue. His view was down the arc of the wheel to the next two lower capsules. He fired once, blasting the window out. Then he started obliterating any dire wolf in his field of fire. It was so easy that he started to wonder why the dire wolves kept pouring down that direction, as if they couldn’t see where he was in his capsule. As if they were afraid of the height themselves. He watched the limber creatures swing and slide their clawed grips along the white metal struts to the next lower capsule, and he realized there was something wrong with the dire wolves. These were not the same creatures he had faced in Shanghai a few hours earlier. Those beasts had moved with a surety and speed he had never seen before.

Bishop stopped firing for a moment and rolled to look up through the clear ceiling of his capsule, back toward the portal where even more dire wolves were emerging. There were far more of them in this attack than in Shanghai, but they were moving much slower. Pausing to tilt their heads, as if looking for something or smelling the air. Sometimes darting their heads from side to side, like a startled dog, when it hears a far off noise. His observations were interrupted when one of the creature’s heads exploded into white mist as Knight continued his barrage from the still hovering Crescent.

Bishop detached his rappelling line and turned to fire on the dire wolves that made their way past his shattered window, heading toward the passengers below. He fired a few volleys and then two things happened.

The first was that the rain intensified to a full-on deluge. His visibility reduced significantly.

The second thing was completely bizarre. The dire wolves—all of them, as if receiving a cue telepathically—simply stopped moving. Wherever they were on the Eye, on top of one of the capsules below Bishop’s vantage point, on the white metal frame or just emerging from the portal, they just…stopped. Frozen where they stood.

“What the hell?” Knight’s voice sounded in Bishop’s headset inside the helmet and it startled him. He had become so used to hearing only his own breathing inside the helmet, that any external sound was freakishly loud by comparison.

“No idea, man. It’s like they’re afraid of something.” Bishop replied, and then he began mowing down any stationary targets he could sight through the curtain of rain. Knight’s fire from above resumed and soon they drastically reduced the number of dire wolves on top of the wheel.

Bishop stopped firing when he ran out of targets lower than his side of the capsule. He stood and clambered over the bench to the other side of the capsule. He knew there were thirty-two capsules—one for each borough of London—from his previous visit as a tourist. He glanced out past the twin BA logo on this side, and he could see only two capsules above him, before the wall of the portal engulfed the frame of the wheel. Those two capsules were completely empty. The doors to one were open. The capsule furthest from him still had its doors shut, but the dire wolves had smashed in windows on top and the inside of the capsule was painted in a dark red hue.

Bishop shuddered.

Those people had been first. That explained why the others had panicked and jumped to their deaths. More dire wolves squatted on the frame above Bishop’s capsule, unmoving. He counted thirty of them.

Make that twenty-nine. Bishop smiled as Knight continued to obliterate the stationary targets.

The rain let up as he watched for a few seconds. Something nagged at the back of Bishop’s mind as he watched the frozen beasts succumb one by one to the devastating fire from Knight’s Barrett. Then, again as if controlled by one mind, they all twitched and moved their heads. Several of them stood from their crouches, and the rest swiveled and tilted their heads, their strange tennis-ball-sized eyes roaming.

Oh shit. Bishop shattered the glass on this side of the capsule and began firing the big .50 caliber rounds at the dire wolves again, still laying down a line of slaughter, but he wounded more than he killed.

The remaining creatures rushed his capsule as another wave of forty or so muscular, gleaming white beasts lunged out of the portal and onto the white steel trusses. Many of them climbed onto the roof above Bishop.

This was a fight he could not win.

Bishop heard a noise at the end of his capsule and turned to see two huge, eight-foot tall dire wolves. The first had dropped into the open doors, just as Bishop had done. The second had climbed into the compartment on the upright metal hinges of the open door on the right and grabbed the safety rail, squatting laterally on the wall of the capsule’s glass as if gravity didn’t affect it.

There was no time to pull the barrel of the XM312-B out of the shattered window on the side of the capsule to aim at these two, ten feet away from him on the capsule’s end. Then the thought that had been tickling his subconscious came through to the front of his mind like a Japanese bullet train.

“Knight! It’s the rain! They can’t see in the rain!”

The dire wolves, each outweighing Bishop by a few hundred pounds of muscle and menace, charged.

TWENTY-NINE

Midtown, New York, NY

3 November, 0830 Hrs

KING WAS SWEATING profusely inside the body armor and helmet. Although the suit contained a state-of-the-art liquid cooling system, it wasn’t as comfortable as it could have been. Each time he took a step and the armor between his legs rubbed, he was reminded of the corduroy trousers his mother had gotten him at Goodwill when he was ten. He hated those things. With the sound dampener technology in the helmet activated, he couldn’t hear the noise of the armor rubbing, but he could feel the vibrations on his skin.

He knew he wasn’t sweating because he was hot, though. No, he was certain the cause of his dampened skin was the small suitcase nuclear device he wore on his back.

“How you doing, King? I’m sweating like a pig in this thing,” Deep Blue’s robust voice came through King’s helmet microphone as they rode the elevator to the 40th floor of the Exxon Building.

“Thank God, I thought it was just me.” King looked at their reflections in the shiny brass elevator doors.

Deep Blue grunted a laugh. Still, King could tell the humor was forced. Neither one of them liked the current plan, but it was all they had.

“These things don’t smell too good either.”

Deep Blue ignored this latest quip, but King felt certain the man was cocooned in his own foam stench. The putrid smell wafted over King, threatening to ruin his focus.

“Remember you are not to engage any dire wolves if you can avoid it. I’ll cover you as best I can.” Deep Blue was back to business.

“I’m sure you’ll be better at it than I would be. That targeting software in your helmet is kind of like cheating,” King said, as the elevator reached the 40th floor and both men felt their stomachs lurch at the abrupt stop.

“Wasn’t time to get you one,” Deep Blue said.

“Yeah, but Christmas isn’t far off,” King quipped, and then as if throwing a switch, he shut off his sense of humor and readied himself to kill anything that wasn’t human. If someone’s pet chihuahua jumped out, it was toast.

Both men raised their MP5 submachine guns and stepped to either side of the doors as they slowly opened. King smiled briefly inside his suit. Deep Blue might have been out of action in the field for years—since he had been a Ranger and subsequently served in politics—but the man was still sharp, and he and King had very quickly learned each other’s moves. They had gained an almost precognitive awareness of each other in battle—something that often took many battles for other soldiers to gain.

King moved into the lushly carpeted hallway and crouched. Water rose from the rug, surrounding his foot. Everything was saturated. “Looks like the sprinkler system went off.” He eyed the sprinkler head poking out of the ceiling above him. A single drip of water maintained a tenuous grasp. It fell and smacked against his facemask. “Let’s hope there isn’t a fire. I don’t think there’s any water left in the system.”

Deep Blue took up a position right behind King. About forty feet down the wood paneled hallway, the glowing yellow curve of the portal’s wall emerged from the wood and seared into walls, floor and ceiling, completely blocking the corridor.

The total lack of sound was eerie. King had gotten up close to one of the portals before—hell, I’ve even been though one—but the last time, according to Aleman’s theory, the portal was still ‘flickering’ into our world. This one was stable.

No fluctuations.

No lightning.

No sound. Though King couldn’t be sure if that was just because his helmet made him deaf to the outside world. It was a tactical disadvantage, but in this case, with dire wolf roars that could incapacitate a Chess Team member with crippling fear, Deep Blue had insisted. King had pointed out his previous immunity to the roar in Chicago, but Deep Blue wouldn’t be moved. Their communications between each other were voice activated as well, so unless Deep Blue or Lewis Aleman spoke in his ear, all King could hear was his own breathing. It reminded him of HALO jumping, which might have been somewhat calming if not for the nuke in his backpack.

King advanced down the hall, staying to the left, Deep Blue covered the right. The plan was simple: a few feet away from the portal wall, he would unsling the backpack, arm the heavy device it held, remove the safety remote control and pocket it, then hurl the thing through the glowing yellow wall. Keasling had a second failsafe that could shut off the device if the backpack passed harmlessly in and out of the portal and plummeted to the ground forty stories below them. The General and his men would be watching for anything to come out of the bottom of the orb. The team wouldn’t take any chances with destroying New York. The city had seen enough hell already.

King squatted a few feet from the portal and pulled the strap of his MP5 over his helmet, freeing his hands. He slid the backpack off his shoulders and then slowly stood, facing the wall of light. Then he dropped the pack on the carpet and froze.

DEEP BLUE WATCHED King’s motions ahead of him as if in a trance. King was getting ready to deploy the bomb and then just stopped for some reason. The man hadn’t moved in a minute. At first Deep Blue thought King had heard or sensed something. But their helmets had sound dampeners and King hadn’t moved at all.

Something was wrong.

“King? What’s going on?”

Nothing. No reply.

Deep Blue took a cautious step backward, away from where King stood facing the portal. He pulled his arm up and tapped quickly on his wrist-keypad that he’d attached to this battle suit from his last. He tested the ambient audio. Had a dire wolf roared? He thought he would have felt it vibrating in his chest, even if he couldn’t hear it because of the audio dampeners. The faceplate display in his helmet told him no such sounds were present.

“King? Are you okay?”

Still no reply.

Deep Blue activated another scanner on his wrist and waited an impatient twenty seconds, until a display came up on his faceplate indicating a foreign substance in the oxygen content of the air. Not a huge amount, but whatever it was, it was an unrecognizable chemical substance. Could be something to worry about, or it could just be the electrified atmosphere from the portal and the stench of the cleaning chemicals used in the hallway. He couldn’t be sure.

But one of the small features Aleman had built into Deep Blue’s new tactical helmet was an air-scrubbing filter. King’s armored helmet didn’t have one. Must be something in the air. He wouldn’t know more until he approached King. But the stiff way the man stood worried Deep Blue.

He stepped forward and reached his hand out to King’s shoulder.

A blur erupted from the wall of light, moving around King’s static form, slamming into Deep Blue’s chest. Something flung him halfway back down the corridor where he hit a wall and crashed to the floor. He was surprised that the suit took the brunt of the impacts—both when he was hit and when he landed in a heap against the wall.

The optic displays in his helmet’s faceplate were going nuts.

Dire wolves.

He lifted his MP5 and prepared to stand, but one of the fast-moving creatures swept him up and threw him over its shoulder. Its claws raked across his back, but the armor deflected the blow. With his rifle arm pinned under him, the beast streaked headlong toward the other end of the corridor with him as its captive—away from King’s still-frozen form. Three more dire wolves clustered around King, but they weren’t attacking his inert body for some reason. Deep Blue fumbled with his free hand, searching for the knife on his left leg. He had just wrapped his fingers around the blade’s handle when he and the dire wolf hit the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the carpeted hallway.

Deep Blue’s armored back smacked the glass and he barely felt the window shatter. He couldn’t hear it, either. But he could see the dire wolf’s mouth opened wide in a roar, as his body separated from it and they both began to fall through the shower of glittering glass particles toward the pavement forty stories below.

THE SOUND OF LOSS

THIRTY

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

3 November, 1300 Hrs

ROOK CLUNG TO the thick black rubber insulation around one of the heavy cables that ran up the curved I-beam of the metal monstrosity. He managed to snag the cable with the fingers of one hand, and now swung precariously above the concrete floor over a hundred feet below him. He reached up with his other hand and grabbed a purchase on the side of the arcing metal upright, then swung his legs in and wrapped them around the beam like a man clinging to the slick trunk of a coconut palm tree.

Once firmly attached to the curved surface, and in no danger of falling, Rook looked back up at the catwalk from which he had fallen. The metal bar was painted a deep Nordic blue. Balancing on the railing like Batman crouched on a Gotham gargoyle, was a creature, partially silhouetted by a huge Klieg light on the ceiling behind it.

Great. At least I know who to blame for knocking me over the railing.

Although vaguely humanoid, its limbs were longer than a human’s and had muscles that dwarfed Bishop’s. Rook could see the individual bundles of its musculature just below the soft white, slightly see-through skin of the thing. Its hands and feet were larger than a human’s were, and each digit had a clear two-inch claw on it, like a shard of glass. The head was domed with large orb eyes on either side of its brain, which he could see through its transparent skin and skull. Its mouth was wide, like some kind of psychotic Cheshire Cat, and when it opened its mouth, Rook saw plenty of see-through sharp incisor teeth for tearing and ripping prey. He couldn’t decide if the thing was snarling or smiling at him.

“Slap my ass and call me Susan! Finally, something I can kill. Just you wait, Milkshake. When I get down from here I’m going to introduce your ugly head to your rectum.” Rook began to scramble down the curved metal, using the twining black electrical cables as handholds. He was nearly to the first panel-like metal plate below him when a distant roar sounded from far off in the bowels of the facility.

Terror seized Rook.

His eyes grew large and his body broke out in a sweat. His heart was thumping in his chest. He started hyperventilating, pulling in huge gulps of the dry air. Instead of climbing further down the metal leg of the cage toward the floor far below him, Rook gripped the cables tighter. His hands clutched the cables so tightly that blood ceased to flow through them. His knuckles turned a pasty white color. He was afraid to stay in place and he was afraid to move.

Suddenly, as quickly as the fear had beset him, Rook felt it begin to fade. His heart rate began to slow and he looked around the cavernous space in shock and wonder. He blinked a few times. Besides the creature on the railing, no one (and nothing) was in sight. He had no idea why he had temporarily been so scared of the distant howling sound. It was almost like a wolf’s howl at the moonlight, but stronger.

Not a wolf.

He felt less and less afraid with each passing moment. The creature remained on the railing above him, unmoving. His breathing under control again, Rook resumed his descent down the curved metal beam. The number of metal plates, protuberances and twisting cables made climbing easy. When he reached the half-way point, he glanced back up at the white creature on the catwalk.

It hadn’t moved.

He continued to climb toward the safety of the floor, seventy feet down. When he was no more than fifty feet off the ground, he glanced up again. What he saw almost made him fall.

“Sweet fuck-a-doodle-doo!” The creature’s face was inches from his own. Somehow the creature had leapt to the strut and descended over a hundred feet in the few seconds since Rook had last looked up at it. And it had come down the strut headfirst and in complete silence!

Rook’s heart jackhammered. He gripped his handhold tighter with his left hand, preparing to release his right. He wasn’t sure how much damage he could do with one bare hand, while hanging fifty feet off the ground, but he was ready to give it a go. He pulled his arm back to fire a punch at the beast’s snout, but a voice held his shoulder in check.

“I wouldn’t do that, Stanislav. The dire wolf will not hurt you unless I tell it to. Or unless you attack it.”

Rook kept his fist cocked back, but craned his neck around to the floor, where Eirek Fossen stood wearing a white lab coat. He was over six feet tall with short dark hair and brown eyes and a wide face. Broad and imposing, the man also held a small black pistol. Rook couldn’t be sure from his height above Fossen, but it might have been a Walther PP, the precursor to the famous pistol used by Ian Fleming’s infamous spy. This was the man Rook had allied himself with to fight the monster Edmund Kiss had become. Fossen raised his arm, aiming the weapon at Rook.

The alliance was most definitely over.

“I should have let Kiss eat your face off.”

“I could say the same, Stanislav. Now come down, and do so slowly.”

THIRTY-ONE

Exxon Building, New York, NY

JACK SIGLER, THE man known as King in the field, felt fine.

Not fine. Fantastic.

He wondered if he had ever felt better. The light from the portal glowed and beautifully. He breathed in deeply and relished the taste of the air. He knew it would be even better if he took the helmet off.

He unfastened the clasps at his neck and lifted it up off his head. He didn’t carefully place the helmet on the ground—he just let it fall from his fingers. The helmet thumped with a dull sound when it hit the carpeted hallway floor, but King paid it no mind, because now he could hear the portal as well as see it.

And it sang to him.

He smiled broadly. This must be what it’s like for Fiona when she hears the mother tongue. His foster daughter was unique in her ability to see and hear the protolanguage of the world in paintings and sculptures, in music and in nature. She had used that ability to help Chess Team and save mankind on more than one occasion. But such important thoughts couldn’t find a hold on the slippery surface of King’s mind, lost in ecstasy as it was. Instead, he let thoughts of the team and the world fall away, like small bits of paper caught in a breeze.

It’s so beautiful.

King inhaled the air deeply, smelling lush fragrance and clean mountain air all in one breath. That he stood in a sterile air-conditioned corridor in a modern building seemed a faraway notion, and because it ran counter to how good the air smelled and tasted, he let that idea go too. It fluttered away just as his worries had. In Chicago the light had been bright, glaring and full of electric danger. Now it shimmered with a luster he felt soothing and exciting all at the same time. He felt calm and in control for the first time in his life. He felt both purpose and the complete lack for a need of purpose. He just was.

King smiled again at the strange wall of light in front of his face.

He glanced around him and saw three of the dire wolves moving slowly around his body, looking both at him and down the corridor behind him. He didn’t really care what they were looking at. They didn’t frighten him at all, and he felt no animosity toward the creatures. He reached out his hand to touch the skin of one and found he couldn’t feel it because of his glove. He pulled his hand back and removed the glove with the other hand, then reached back out to stroke the dire wolf’s chest with his naked fingers.

They are so soft! The creature had a very fine downy hair on its body, almost invisible to the human eye, like the fuzz on a ripe peach. Like the feeling of a high-end stuffed animal.

King ran his hand over the dire wolf’s chest and the creature simply stood there allowing it. The eye facing King warbled in the orb on the side of its head, regarding him carefully. King wasn’t frightened of the creature at all now. Instead, he felt affection akin to love for the beast.

But somewhere small at the back of his mind was a tiny voice screaming that this whole situation was wrong. King ignored the voice and moved forward, placing his cheek against the dire wolf’s shoulder. He rubbed the soft down against his face.

“You’re nice,” he spoke aloud and the dreamy quality of his voice made him giggle.

The dire wolf moved away from him and another came closer, sniffing at him. He liked this new one even better. Friendly. Fiona would like him.

But this second thought of Fiona gave power to the insistent, niggling voice at the back of his brain.

No. She wouldn’t. No! This is wrong.

“Go away,” he told the voice, and it died a quiet death in his subconscious. The dire wolf didn’t move away from him.

He knows I’m not talking to him. Or is it an it? I didn’t see any naughty bits.

King assessed the beast again, but came away from the glance only feeling better, if that was possible. His thought of determining its gender, if any, was swept away, as if a glorious breeze had just rushed by him, carrying scents of his favorite foods, the sea after a storm and gentle winds from an almost artificially green Alpine valley he had once visited in Switzerland.

This place is so good. I should bring Sara here. He grinned a huge grin.

No. The quiet voice returned. You have to keep them safe.

His grin faltered as images of cities being devoured by globes of devastating lightning-hurling energy filled his mind. But the pretty—

King tightly squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the glistening wall of the portal in front of him. No longer looking at the soft, friendly dire wolves. The images were still in his head though. The horror of people killed and cities scooped out of the ground by a cosmic event unlike anything before it.

You have to keep them safe.

Thoughts of his girlfriend, adopted daughter, team members and friends like George Pierce filled his mind. His memories of them made resisting the euphoria that much easier. There was a nuclear weapon in a satchel at his ankles, and he remembered what he was supposed to do with it. But it was hard, so very hard. Fighting against that warm happy place, where he had been for days—or had it just been moments—was the hardest fight of his life.

He sensed his resistance slipping. He wouldn’t last much longer. He yearned to go back to the bright light and the wonderful smells of autumn in Vermont, skiing in Europe, the beach in Florida…Florida. He remembered Disney and the Russian helicopter.

In one sudden, lunging movement, he reached down and grabbed the satchel with the nuclear weapon. He spun in a fast circle and flung the backpack into the wall of bright light before him. It disappeared as it hit the edge of the portal. He could only hope that it had gone in far enough.

Then as the warm happy feelings began to engulf him again, filling up all the empty places in his soul with a pulsing joy, the likes of which he had never even imagined existed, it happened.

That tiny voice that had brought him back to sanity for one brief moment spoke again. A doubt. A whimper. Little more than a squeak.

You didn’t arm the device.

King didn’t care.

The warm glory of God Himself wrapped him in a loving embrace.

THIRTY-TWO

London, England

THE TWO DIRE wolves, glistening wet from the rain, slammed into Bishop’s body, knocking him to the river-facing end of the capsule. His body smashed into the glass and metal of the end of the passenger car, but with the impact-absorbing armor, it felt like little more than a light shove. He lost his hold on the XM312-B and the machine gun flipped out the shattered window, toppling away. A second weapon lost in 24 hours. Bishop swore silently.

The dire wolves stopped halfway inside the capsule. One now squatted on the center of the wooden bench and the other on the floor to its left. They waited, and Bishop wondered why. He stayed on the floor of the capsule, unmoving, watching them.

Great big eyes, but you can’t see too good, can you?

He realized they couldn’t see in the rain and had waited for it to abate before moving again. But it wasn’t raining inside the capsule. Bishop strained to hear and then realized he couldn’t hear anything but his own breathing. The armor. Maybe they detect body heat too. Maybe they only track movement. Then inspiration struck.

Bishop couldn’t hear any external sound and his body was cushioned from impact by the armor. Slowly, he moved his hand up to his chest. The MP5s were still strapped to him. Attached to the strap of one of the rifles was an M84 stun grenade, more commonly known as a flash-bang. It didn’t contain shrapnel, but instead emitted a non-lethal burst of magnesium-based flaring light and an incapacitating bang of sound. But with the sound dampener in his helmet and the impact-absorbing armor, all Bishop would have to do to avoid the effects of the grenade was close his eyes tightly. He slipped his finger into the circular pull ring and then struggled a second to get another finger into the secondary, triangular pull ring. He didn’t bother depressing the safety lever. His movements were minimal, but still the dire wolf on the bench moved its head slightly at the motion.

Crap. He’s seen it.

Bishop lunged to his feet, dropping the grenade on the floor of the cabin. The dire wolf on the bench turned its attention fully in his direction, but it lunged laterally, grabbing the metal railings again as it had done when it entered the capsule. The other dire wolf swiveled its eyes and lowered its head to examine the grenade as it skittered to a stop in front of the creature.

Bishop crushed his eyes shut and lunged forward toward to dire wolf on the wall. The shockwave impact from the grenade hit his armored body just before he slammed into the creature on the wall. The creature bounced off his moving body like a superball bouncing off a wall. The dire wolf was moving away from Bishop as he opened his eyes, in time to see the beast sliding out the open doors of the capsule and falling away. He looked back to see the second dire wolf stirring on the floor, where the grenade had temporarily done exactly what it was designed to—it had stunned the creature. Bishop didn’t wait to see how long it took the dire wolf to recover. He sprinted for the open door and leapt out into the air.

The Crescent hadn’t moved from its position above Bishop’s capsule on the top of the wheel, so the rappelling line still hung from the underside of the huge curve-winged transport plane. But it was further away than Bishop had thought. He stretched his fingers out as far as he could. His body shot out into open space. Just when he thought he would miss the rope entirely, the back of his fingers brushed the line. He scrabbled at it and snagged it. As he moved through the air and before the rope absorbed his weight, he quickly wound the rope around his left arm once. Momentum swung him out and away from the wheel. The line wasn’t long enough for him to slide to the ground, so his only option was to swing back to the frame of the Eye.

He twisted on the rope as he began to swing back. Keeping the rope wrapped around his left arm, he reached out at the apex of his swing and caught hold of the nearest tie rod. Hooking his knee around the rod, he moved his hand back to the rope and began to climb. Knight must have noticed what was going on, because Bishop looked up to the capsule he had just escaped in time to see the second dire wolf’s head explode, coating the doors on the end of the capsule with a milky fluid.

He climbed hand over hand, rewrapping the rope around his left arm each time for an added measure of security. He slid his leg up the tie rod until he got to a crawlspace formed by a triangular tunnel of bars and struts that ran under the capsules—or above them at the bottom of the wheel. Knight picked off a few more dire wolves from around Bishop while the big man focused on his climbing. He could see the creatures pitching off the rails to either side of him, falling to the ground and river below. As Bishop worked his way down the tunnel of bars, heading for a capsule two away from the first one he’d entered, he could see three people still trapped inside. He also noticed that Knight’s firing had stopped.

“Bishop, you read?” Knight calm voice spoke softly in his earpiece.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

“They’re bugging out. But there are a lot more over on the bridge by Big Ben. You okay on your own for a minute?”

Bishop glanced back the way he had come through the jungle gym of connected white bars. Upriver, he could see Westminster bridge was overrun by dire wolves and a portal had formed on the Victoria Embankment, close to, but not yet touching Big Ben, the famed British landmark clock tower at the end of the Palace of Westminster—one of the city’s major seats of governing.

“Go. I’m going to help the people still trapped in the other capsules.” Bishop resumed his scramble through the bars.

“We’ll be right back. Try to hurry. If the portal goes, the center of that wheel goes too. You’ll look pretty silly rolling to Southend.” The Crescent suddenly peeled away from the top of the London Eye, heading for the middle of the green-painted Westminster Bridge.

Bishop continued down past the remains of his original capsule and the next, on to the one after that. Inside were three young girls that looked to be no more than sixteen or seventeen, each dressed in fashionable pink and white fleece jackets. They probably dressed like each other intentionally, Bishop thought. He remembered when he was younger, the girls would have been mocked mercilessly by their peers for showing up at high school or elsewhere looking like ‘Twinkies’—identical and two to a package. What was considered cool had apparently changed.

When Bishop looked up from under the capsule, he saw that each of the girls had smeared eye make-up. They had been crying. Also, it was a long way up to the capsule from the bottom of the triangular passage. He would have to shimmy nearly twenty feet up one of the diagonal uprights to get to the girls.

He looked down briefly to the hundreds of feet of air and steel below him before the river, then looked back at the portal. The last of the remaining dire wolves were high-tailing it back inside.

Running out of time.

He took one more glance, this time further afield toward the bridge, where the Crescent lowered and Knight delivered pain from above. Bishop began to slide, climb, shimmy and shrug his way up the slick metal pole. The angle helped the climb considerably, and before he realized it, he reached his hand up for more pole only to find the upper rim of the wheel. The girls had watched his ascent awestruck, and now that he was close enough to almost reach out and touch, they started screaming for his help.

“Relax. I’m going to get you out!”

Then the unthinkable happened.

The portal disappeared. He could see its absence from his limited peripheral vision in the helmet. He turned his head to look and just as his side vision had suggested, there was a massive gaping space where the hundred-foot diameter globe of energy had been. In the distance across the city, other globes were still present, but his had gone, taking everything it had touched. A quarter of the outer rim of the wheel was now missing, along with the capsules that would have been there. The tie rods that reached from that portion of the wheel down to the hub were gone too. The hub itself and the two gigantic white cantilevered supports that held the entire wheel aloft were also gone. Bishop was holding onto a crescent-shaped incomplete wheel of steel and now-dangling tie rods and cables that were held in the air by…nothing.

With several people still trapped in capsules below him on the unaffected side of the wheel, the girls still trapped in the one above him and Bishop still holding on to the structure near the top, the London Eye began to fall over into the river.

THIRTY-THREE

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

THE WOMAN WITH the callsign Queen disappeared. In her place was a fourteen-year-old girl with the unlikely name of Zelda. Her mother was dead. Her father was a drunk and beat her nightly. Sometimes with a leather belt. She was terrified of spiders and mice. She couldn’t stand heights. Enclosed spaces would make her break down into a puddle of tremors. Lightning terrified her and made her scream. She dreamed every night that she was being devoured by wild animals. She was still alive and breathing as lions and cougars pulled her intestines from her abdomen. When she woke from her sleep, the nightmares just got worse in the light of day.

Her world was a living state of terror. If only she could find a way out of it. But she knew drugs were not the way. She had been on drugs when her son died and they hadn’t helped.

Wait, that’s not right. I didn’t have a child at fourteen.

She struggled to make sense of the fear and the logical incongruity that crept into her mind. I crushed the spider. I’m not afraid of spiders any more. She knew she shouldn’t think that way. He would be back and he would be angry. He would beat her again and again, and maybe this time he would go too far. I don’t fear anything. Major-General Trung tried to break me in Vietnam, but I beat him too. I am the hunter now.

“Quiet,” she whispered. “He’ll hear!”

I base jump.

“He’s in the hallway, right now.”

I free solo rock climb!

“He has the one with the large buckle.” The whispers were frantic.

I am fearless!

She moved her hand up in the darkness to touch the scar on her forehead. The brand—it was a skull encased in a star, the symbol of the VPLA Death Volunteers, Vietnam’s Special Forces Unit. Trung had branded her like cattle, but she had escaped and exacted her vengeance on the bastard. Then she made the symbol her own, drawing strength from the wound. She felt the rough lumpy surface of her scarred skin beneath her fingertips and the sensation brought her fully back to the here and now.

Queen opened her eyes and looked at the small room in which she lay. There were a few wooden crates with swastikas on them and the legend Ahnenerbe. Queen recalled Rook mentioning the word—the name for a WWII German unit that focused on historical research and German superiority. The room had a door with no handle on it. Beyond that, she was alone in a storeroom of sorts, turned into the perfect jail cell. No window, but a lone 40-watt bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling.

She sat up from the floor where she had been lying and rubbed the brand on her forehead again, reassuring herself that she was in the present and not lost in the quagmire of her childhood. It was there under her fingers. Her old anger about the mark resurfaced, and with it bloomed a new anger at the people who ran this place and the creatures they employed. Her face felt red and hot. She could feel her heart beating faster as rage coursed through her strong body, cleaning out the last vestiges of the fear that had filled it moments before.

And then her anger turned toward Rook.

“I am so going to kick your ass again, Rook.”

Had he called this in sooner, the team could have come together and moved through this place like the coordinated tor-nado of destruction they trained to be. Sure, they could solve a puzzle or two, unlock the secrets of history, science and the unknown, but they really excelled at blowing shit up. It was an art form they perfected as a team. Solo, they were dangerous. In two-man teams, they were deadly. United, they could fight the unkillable and win.

By her logic, the blame for the trouble they found themselves in lay squarely on Rook’s broad shoulders.

But she couldn’t stay angry at him. He’d suffered a loss in Siberia, and right or wrong, it had affected him deeply. Loss was part of the game, but Rook had never really experienced it before. Not like that. Now he was damaged goods, just like her.

She smiled at the idea. A match made in Heaven.

Or hell.

She couldn’t deny her growing feelings for the man. She’d nearly come out with it back at that store, but he’d gone and used that nickname.

Zel.

It was the name her mother used for her, before she succumbed to cancer and left her alone with her abusive alcoholic father. She didn’t remember a lot about her mother. Didn’t think about her much, either. But that single word, Zel, was like a key to her soul. It unlocked the past and she wasn’t ready to share that yet, with anyone.

She stood and examined every inch of the room until she had assured herself that there were no other ways in or out and that nothing in the room would help her pry the door open. The crates held oddly shaped scientific equipment. She didn’t recognize most of it. One of the things she did recognize was a dirty, broken microscope that looked older than the one she had used in high school biology class, but it didn’t hold her interest.

Across the room, there was a small air vent near the ceiling, on the wall adjacent to the door. It was far too small for her to fit even her head into it. She considered removing the grill over the vent and using it to pry open the handle-less gray door, but then she had a better idea. She managed to get her fingers behind the edge of the flimsy vent grill by standing on the Ahnenerbe crates. She pulled hard and the pliable metal popped free into her hands. No way it would be strong enough to go to work on the door. She didn’t even think she could use the weak metal as a stabbing implement. Next she slid two stacked crates to the center of the room and reached up to the lightbulb.

Hello darkness, she thought and unscrewed the bulb. She climbed down and set the bulb down into one of the other crates she had opened. It might come in handy later—she didn’t want to break it. Then she carefully felt her way through the dark, back onto the stacked crates where the dangling lightbulb hung. She grabbed it and tugged hard. The wire, insulation and all, came free in her hand. She pulled a long length of it out of the ceiling and wrapped it around her hand.

Now she would just wait for someone to come open the door and meet doom.

THIRTY-FOUR

Outside the Exxon Building, New York, NY

DEEP BLUE MARVELED at how in moments of extreme action, the human mind could sometimes slow things down to a crawl and your perceptions heightened to the point where you could pick out a speck of dust floating in the air, as if it were suspended in time.

That was happening now for him. He and the dire wolf that had propelled him through the window on the 40th floor of the Exxon Building fell in spectacular slow motion. Tiny fragments and slivers of glittering glass rained down around them. Deep Blue was further from the wall of the skyscraper than the dire wolf that was already reaching out toward the wall of glass. Deep Blue drew his knife. The EOD variant of the Army M9 bayonet came up and Deep Blue thrust the wicked blade down toward the exposed rear flank of the falling dire wolf.

The upside down monster scrabbled at the slick glass and concrete surface of the building with its clear claws. At the same moment that Deep Blue plunged the sharp point of the blade into the creature’s rump, its claws found purchase on the concrete space between the windows. The blade sank into the creature at an angle and a thick white fluid spurted out of the wound in a slow-motion arc, sweeping over Deep Blue’s knife hand. The creature stopped falling. Deep Blue nearly lost his grip on the knife as his fall suddenly jerked to a stop, but he held on with a determined shout that filled his helmet.

Then he slipped lower.

The dire wolf’s claws had found a tight grip on the concrete upright of the building. It wasn’t falling anymore. But the knife, sunken deep into the beast’s flesh, was too sharp. The weight of Deep Blue’s body pulled the blade down, along the creature’s ass and into its lower back.

Finally, the blade chewed into spinal bone—Deep Blue could see the pronounced spinal column pushing against the skin, like the bones of a hideously skinny man. The blade lodged fast into the spine and Deep Blue’s descent stuttered to a halt, just as time resumed its natural pace.

Deep Blue looked back up the building and saw that the spectacular fall had only taken two stories from the shattered window up on 40. The dire wolf clung to the wall upside down outside the 38th floor. Deep Blue hung from one arm, his hand clutching the knife tightly. He looked down to the street far below him.

A mistake.

It was a long way down and the street was totally empty. There was no sign of Keasling or the Army. Then he remembered where he was. He was dangling from the creature’s back over West 50th Street. Keasling and his men were on 49th, under the portal.

He turned his attention back to the dire wolf. It wasn’t moving, but he suspected the beast was in pain. The muscles in its back were twitching out a samba, but it refused to move. The extra weight of Deep Blue, plus the twenty pounds of armor and weap-onry he wore, were clearly taking a toll on the thing. Deep Blue wasn’t sure what his next move would be.

Then the dire wolf made the choice for him.

It slid one of its rear legs backward and up the concrete pillar. The helmet’s heads-up display and the camera built into the faceplate registered the motion and reported it to Deep Blue. The creature stretched the leg as far up as it could and then sank its translucent claws on that foot deep into the concrete. Then it slid one of its clawed hands higher.

Son of a bitch. He’s going to try to climb backward up to the window, with me still hanging from him.

That was not going to work out well for Deep Blue. If the creature made it to the shattered window above, it would be free to attack him while he was still hanging out over the drop.

He tried King one more time through the communications link. “King! Wake up soldier! I need you!”

No response. Whatever was holding the man under its thrall was powerful.

Deep Blue reached his free hand up and grabbed the beast between its legs. The area was smooth, lacking any reproductive organs that he could feel.

Thank God for small favors.

He climbed up the creature’s back as it pulled itself up the wall backward. Once his grip was secure in the beast’s crotch, Deep Blue released the knife and quickly pulled an M67 fragmentation grenade—the only one he had—from a pouch on the front of his armor.

He popped the safety clip, thumbed out the pin and let the spoon flip outward into a graceful arc across the Midtown sky. He then rammed the grenade into the oozing wound left behind by the knife in the creature’s ass. He let go of the device and pulled his fist back. Then for good measure, he rammed his fist back into the wound, punching the grenade deeper.

Then he pulled his feet up and thrust them against the dire wolf’s back. He sprang and flew backward into the chasm of air between the Exxon Building and the Time-Life Building.

Deep Blue was still in his lateral swan dive out into space when the fragmentation grenade detonated, ripping the dire wolf in half and grotesquely sending its severed legs flying first up and then down, while its torso remained clinging to the wall for a horrible second longer, before it, too, began to fall.

With only 450 feet to fall, Deep Blue’s body was moving rapidly, so he just barely had time to twist in the air and pull the ripcord on the small parachute he wore. They had only had one nuclear device, and King carried that. With battle in a vertical space, Deep Blue had thought to carry a parachute—just in case.

As his parachute popped open, Deep Blue enjoyed the relatively calm nine-second ride to the street below him. He reflected that this was now the second time in a period of 24 hours that he had needed a parachute. I might start wearing one of these all the time.

The ground rushed up to meet him as Deep Blue pulled and released the toggles. As he came to a landing, Lewis Aleman contacted him on the headset in his helmet.

“That was interesting, Boss. Twice in one day?”

“Shut it, Ale.” His feet touched the ground and he quickly detached from the parachute and began to sprint back to the building’s doors. He needed to get back inside to help King.

“Got something that might help a lot. The dire wolves don’t see well with interference in the air surrounding them. Bishop reported they can’t deal with rain. Anywhere you can pick up some chaff?” Aleman’s voice sounded excited. They finally had a way to combat the creatures.

“As a matter of fact, yes. There is. Thanks, Lewis. You might just have saved the day.”

Deep Blue signed off and reversed his direction away from the building, and headed toward 6th instead. As he reached the road, an olive drab Humvee came ripping around the corner, its thick tires barking on the pavement. Before it was done skidding to a halt in front of Deep Blue, General Keasling had the door open and was getting out.

“Holy shit, Tom! Are you okay?” Keasling hadn’t bothered to don his hat upon exiting the vehicle. Deep Blue thought this might be one of very few times he had seen the General lose military bearing when in uniform. He felt touched that his friend was exhibiting such care for him. Plus, he was pretty glad to be alive, himself.

“I’ll be fine, General.” Deep Blue shook the man’s outstretched hand. “In fact, I feel like having a party. Aleman says the creatures can’t see though airborne chaff and rain. The sprinkler system in the tower is empty, but there was a party supply store a few blocks down on 6th, remember? Let’s go buy us some confetti. Then I need to get back up there. Something has control of King. It’s time we took control instead.”

THIRTY-FIVE

Westminster Bridge, London, England

KNIGHT COULDN’T BELIEVE it, but he was starting to run low on ammunition for the Barrett. The Crescent lowered down to the middle of the Westminster Bridge and stayed in place, hovering about a hundred feet above it. Knight was now lying in the same open doorway he had used to fire down on the Eye. Night began to fall in shades of dark blue and purple. A tiny flicker of golden sunset was still visible on the horizon through the trees of St. James Park, at the end of Bridge Street.

It would have been a perfect view, if not for the huge portal of light enveloping Portcullis House, the office building just across the street from Big Ben, at the end of the bridge. Knight watched as wave after wave of dire wolves peeled out of the energy globe and turned left onto the bridge toward their deaths at his hands. He fired shot after shot, and with the speeding creatures coming directly toward him, he had no problem gauging their speed. At this point, the entire surface of the bridge was covered in viscous white fluid that leaked from the mounds of dead monsters. Some of the beasts even slipped in the muck, allowing Knight to fire on them while they were on the ground. Easy targets. He must have shot a hundred of them, but they were still pouring from the portal. He needed something with a higher rate of fire if he was going to get them all.

He had no idea why none of them chose to turn right out of the portal and head deeper into the city, toward the parks. It was like they were a flock of birds, or a shoal of fish, moving always in the same direction. He lined up one last shot with the Barrett’s Leupold scope, and squeezed the trigger. A bloom of fluid erupted from the front of the fast moving dire wolf’s chest.

Knight pulled his eye away from the scope and watched as the dire wolf fell forward on its chest and face, its legs grotesquely in the air behind it. It slid forward for another dozen feet, its intense momentum carrying it onward, before it rammed into another dire wolf corpse that lay on the bridge.

More dire wolves emerged from the portal up by the clock tower, but he had cleared them from the bridge for the moment. He took the opportunity the brief lull provided to stand up and abandon the Barrett. He headed deeper into the Crescent, running to an armory closet. Normally, Bishop was the one that used heavy machine guns. For one thing, he was the only team member strong enough to lug one around all day. Although Knight was smaller, he could still lift the 127-pound gun Browning M2 with its tripod, but he wouldn’t be able to carry it far. He brought the weapon over to the door and set it down.

“Black One, can you set down? I’m gonna hop out with a Browning.” Knight spoke to the pilot and before the man replied, the VTOL engines slowed and the ship began to lower the last hundred feet to the bridge.

“If you’re sure, Knight. Personally, I wouldn’t want to be on the ground with those assholes.” One of the things Knight had come to like about Black One was that the man was always congenial and upfront with his thoughts, but he complied with requests almost before they were issued. His copilot, Black Two, was usually taciturn to the point of sullen. Knight tried to remember when he had last heard the man speak. He couldn’t.

“I’ll be fine.” The Crescent gently set down on the surface of the bridge and Knight hopped out of the open door, pulling the giant Browning with him. He set it down in the middle of the bridge on its tripod, just behind an effective barrier of dire wolf corpses. Then he went back to the open doorway and pulled out a couple of boxes of belt-fed .50 caliber ammunition.

“Pull back to a safe distance. I’ll call when I need you.” The Crescent pulled up and moved away toward St. Thomas’s Hospital on the south side of the bridge.

Knight set one of the boxes of ammunition next to the Browning and loaded a belt. The weapon had an effective range of around 2000 yards, so he’d be able to hit the dire wolves pretty far down the bridge. He was only about 500 feet from the portal, so he would have to be careful not to strafe the buildings on either side of the road as the monsters ran at him. He felt certain that while Britain would be grateful for US assistance in putting down the dire wolf incursion, they might look less fondly on him turning Big Ben into a Swiss cheese building full of eight-inch holes.

Knight opened fire on the end of the bridge with the huge gun, simply rotating it on its tripod to mow down an entire line of dire wolves that were heading his way. The gun’s violent recoil shook his arms as he fired an arc of .50 caliber death back across the bridge again, ripping through a second wave of dire wolves. All that remained were the creatures still emerging from the portal. He waited for them to make the left turn and come at him.

Just like birds. Or bats. Bishop said they couldn’t see well in the rain. Maybe they do have some flocking instinct and don’t know what to do when the leader is confused. Or dead.

The thought of Bishop, and the knowledge that he had a second or two before he needed to fire again, made him look to his right along the river, toward the London Eye. He looked at the exact moment that the wheel crashed down vertically on its lower rim. A quarter of the wheel was gone. The tie rods flailed in the middle like a broken bicycle wheel. The entire wheel was off the support—because the top third of the cantilevered struts were just missing. Vanished. Like the portal.

Oh shit. Bishop was still on the top of the wheel. Knight could just barely see him clinging to the top, as the remaining structure toppled slowly forward into the river, mashing the small pier that ran parallel to the river’s shore, where the wheel had sat. The steel buckled and flopped as it came crashing into the river, and Knight followed Bishop with his eye, the man riding the falling pile of metal like a bucking bronco, until the splash from the impact with the water sent up such a plume of murky brown water that the tiny figure was obscured.

Knight was about to call out to Bishop over the microphone in his helmet when he felt something slam into him. He wasn’t hurt at all—the armor absorbed the impact perfectly, but he was startled to find himself several feet in the air, being carried over the shoulder of a dire wolf. The Browning was already far behind them.

The collapse of the Eye had distracted him, when a wave of dire wolves had been headed his way. Stupid! The creature carrying him ran fast. Knight tried to grab at the creature’s face with a hand, but it batted his arm away with a swipe of claws. Knight could see the tears in the armor from the beast’s claws and knew if he wasn’t wearing it, he’d likely be dead already. Up close and over the monster’s shoulder like a burlap sack, all Knight could easily see was the creature’s broad back. The muscles rippled and tensed under the see-through skin. Knight tried to push back away from the dire wolf, but it suddenly turned at the end of the bridge and began sprinting back the way it had come. The force of the high-speed turn threw its balance off and allowed Knight a look around. The other dire wolves were already heading back toward the portal from which they had come. Knight reached for the low-slung holster on his left leg, pulling out his Glock, but again, the creature swept claws at him and the gun was knocked from his hand. He watched helplessly as the gun sailed over the edge of the bridge and into the river.

Next, Knight twisted his torso, lunging his head and knocking the dire wolf in the back of its head with his armored helmet. The creature loosened its grip for just a second. Enough for Knight to slide his right hand up to his sheathed knife on his chest. The dire wolf tightened its crushing grip again and Knight’s hand was trapped against his chest on the handle of the knife.

Bastard.

He struggled and peered around again to see that they were nearly at the portal, and many of the other dire wolves had retreated into it. He began frantically kicking his knee toward the dire wolf’s chest and once again, the creature loosened its grasp for just a second. But this time Knight was ready for the short respite. He ripped his arm outward, pulling the knife and driving it deeply into the back of the creature’s neck. He was surprised that the beast didn’t drop from the blow, so he tore the blade out and began stabbing at the creature’s back repeatedly, aiming for the heart—if it was where a human heart would be—and the back of the head and neck as much as he could.

The creature faltered and slowed. He could feel the descent in velocity as the dire wolf staggered. Then it began to fall forward, pulling Knight’s body with it. Knight pulled his legs up hoping to spring off the creature before the weight of it pinned him to the ground, but he was too late.

The dire wolf collapsed right through the wall of the glowing energy portal, and just as it hit the ground, the energy portal closed with a sucking sound and a strong gust of wind. The portal left a crater in its wake.

And a pair of feet.

The dire wolf’s.

There was no sign of Knight.

THIRTY-SIX

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

ASYA SCREAMED AS she fell.

She had made her way to the lower level of the lab and stared up at the giant cage of metal that dominated the space before exploring the doors and tunnels that led off from the cavernous room. Many of the doors were locked, but she found old crumbling tunnels that burrowed into the earth, leading off each wall of the giant room. She had ventured into one just a few feet past the point where the lights from the main room offered any illumination.

She was about to turn back when she heard a tiny sound from deeper in the tunnel. It might have been a pebble scraping along the stone floor. Or maybe a small animal. It was impossible to tell. The tunnel, which was wide but low, was pitch dark. Asya felt along the brick walls with her hands and moved deeper into the space. She smelled dust and something wet, which surprised her, because thus far everything in the lab had been very dry.

It was when, for the second time, she was about to give up exploring and go back to look for a flashlight that she stepped forward into nothing and toppled over in the gloom. She screamed as she fell, the sounds of her voice echoing through the tunnel. She landed on something that was soft mixed with tiny sharp pokey spines. She felt the surface under her in the dark and the sensation on her fingertips was like spongy rubber with toothpicks sticking out of it. She touched one of the sharp things and applied a gentle pressure to its side. The thing snapped, just like a toothpick would. She ran her fingers over the break and felt the tiny barbs, but they were more jagged than the fibers from a snapped toothpick—more solid too.

“Bozhe moi. What is this?” She whispered in the dark, afraid suddenly of what else might be in this pit with her. She struggled to find footing on the squishy surface and instead walked on her knees with one hand on the mushy uneven ground for balance and the other reaching out in the dark for a wall. She felt the barbs poking her knees as she moved forward, but her splayed out fingertips soon grazed brick. She ran her hand over the bricks and they felt similar to the ones that formed the tunnel up above—smaller than normal bricks today. She ran her hand left and right along the wall looking for anything different than a flat wall surface. A door or a ladder. Or a light switch.

The smell in this new space was wetter than up in the tunnel, but the squishing surface that made up the ground was dry to the touch. She tried again to stand but quickly gave up. It was like standing on top of a ball pit. What she had thought was solid—if rubbery—ground was actually a pile of something. Several small somethings.

Stupid! Asya suddenly remembered that she had a small LED light in a survival kit that she wore on her waist in a tiny fanny pack. She had picked it up at the store in Olderdalen when Stanislav—no, Rook, she corrected herself—was buying his new coat. The kit would have some wooden matches as well, but the LED keychain light would be easier to find in the dark.

She unzipped the pouch and carefully slipped her fingers inside the scratchy nylon, so she didn’t disgorge the contents into the pile of mystery things on which she kneeled. Her fingers found the plastic casing of the tiny flashlight. She pulled it out. Before lighting it, she zipped the pouch again, and slipped a finger through the ring on the end of the light. She didn’t want to lose it.

Then she depressed the spring-loaded button, illuminating the small room around her with a garish blast of blue-tinged white light.

She wished she hadn’t.

Against her will, a second scream rose up in her. This one far longer and far more distressed than the yelp she had let out when she fell.

She was in a graveyard. She was on a graveyard. A grave mound. And it was heaped with the tiny corpses of small white creatures unlike any she had ever seen. There were hundreds—maybe thousands—of the little things, their rib bones poking though the desiccated chests of the small white puppy-like creatures. They had miniscule clear claws on each paw but strange small pinpricks of eyes on the sides of their heads. They were not puppies, nor wolves. She could see their musculature under their whitish skin. They were not any animal she had ever seen or heard of.

They were something else.

Something unnatural.

Hideous.

Asya’s breath caught in her chest. The mound of tiny bodies moved.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Endgame Headquarters, White Mountains, NH

3 November, 1000 Hrs

SARA FOGG WALKED with Anna Beck into the large aircraft hanger that housed the last airborne vehicle belonging to Endgame. The Black Hawk sat on the concrete floor of the hangar and Black Six, the suave young spy, stood next to it in a black flight suit. Beck wore a black flight suit herself.

“You get to ride with the hunk, huh?” Fogg joked. “I bet Knight won’t like that.”

“He’ll get over it. Besides, Six can pilot a Black Hawk—I can’t. He’ll come with me to the Pease Air National Guard Base in Portsmouth where we’ll wait around to rendezvous with a Blackbird out of Hanscom Air Force Base and haul ass to Norway. Half the pilots are in Europe with Bishop and Knight and the other two are in New York with King and Deep Blue.”

“Would be nice to have Queen and Rook back. They’ll help keep our guys alive.” Fogg looked at Beck and patted her on the shoulder. The two women had become close over the last two weeks. “Be safe and kick ass.”

Beck winked. “You know it.”

Fogg watched as Beck strode across the hangar and lightly punched Black Six in the upper arm. “Let’s go, Secret Agent Man.”

Fogg turned as the two got into the Black Hawk and it rolled forward out of the massive hundred-foot-wide doorway. It then took to the sky and the computer controlled steel door slowly lowered into place from where it had been hidden in the ceiling of rock and concrete. Fogg had heard about a mishap with that door when the base was being set up and she always made it a point to not stand anywhere near it.

With the door completely shut, and the daylight gone from the hangar, it was a dimly lit and empty place. Fogg headed back to the corridor off the hangar that led to the offices and the main computer center, where she would no doubt find Aleman and Pierce still frantically trying to make sense of the strange creatures destroying the world.

Fogg had already made sense of it for herself. This was just how crazy the world had gotten. King and the rest of Chess Team were always in the thick of it. Genetically engineered soldiers, reani-mated monsters, custom tailored bio-weapons and viruses, anthropological missing-link creatures, golems, artificially intelligent super computers, assassins, corporate megalomaniacs, modern-day pirates, terrorists and even black holes. This was King’s world and she was a part of it. The world would go apeshit nutso and Chess Team would stop it. That’s what they did. And if they didn’t, there wouldn’t be a world to worry about. Armed with that knowledge, she was able to remain as calm and tranquil as a Buddhist monk.

Most of the time.

Seeing King ejecting from that plane and smashing into a skyscraper had been a jolt. So had the dire wolf roar that brought back her claustrophobia.

It’s strange, she thought. Being in this base under a mountain doesn’t weird me out, but the thought of a tiny dirt tunnel so close to the surface that I could dig my way there with my fingers gives me the heebie-jeebies.

She had a rock-solid inner belief in King’s invincibility, and that got her through each new crazy thing that arose. But she also found herself wondering if maybe there would be a time soon when someone else could become ‘King.’ A time when she and Jack could take Fiona and go off to some isolated part of the world away from corporate madmen and bio-engineered super threats.

She knew enough about lab-created viruses from her work at the CDC to realize that it was only a matter of time before some super-plague wiped out a good swash of the world’s population. Going off to live like a survivalist in a cabin in British Columbia was looking more attractive to her all the time. Of course, the forest would play havoc with her sensory processing disorder, but maybe she could learn to live with that.

As she stepped into the computer room, she saw Lewis Aleman and George Pierce, who had both clearly found the time to throw on new clothes—Aleman still in jeans and a t-shirt, and Pierce with a black sweatshirt with a white King chessman icon on the left breast. Both men hunkered over Pierce’s computer terminal at the side of the room, Aleman having abandoned the ergonomic chair.

“What’s up?” she asked.

Aleman stood straighter and stretched his back, turning to her. “We’re tracking the portals and trying to find their origin.”

“Can you do that?” she asked.

“No,” Aleman smiled weakly. “But we can look at the surrounding environmental disturbances that the portals create and make some educated guesses.”

“Environmental disturbances?”

Pierce placed his hands on his lower back and stretched as Aleman had done, then slid his glasses further up his nose with the tip of one finger.

“The weather,” he said. “Each event creates local disturbances in the weather pattern because of the amount of electricity—even the ones that have appeared underwater or underground.”

“Oh that’s genius,” she walked over to the screen to see a map of the globe and colored circles representing the placement and appearance of known energy portals based on storm patterns detected by weather satellites. She’d seen similar maps on the news.

“Thanks,” Aleman said. He pointed at the screen. “So we’ve factored in the likely weather phenomenon when one of these things appears, and we’re tracking the size of them as they keep appearing. They keep getting bigger. So George had the idea to try to find smaller ones from before yesterday…”

Pierce broke in, “Right, and Lewis realized we could use existing satellite data to find smaller occurrences of the portals before yesterday when the first really big ones appeared in Asia.”

Aleman continued. “Right now the algorithm is searching out likely weather patterns and making a list of possible portals. But even if we can trace their origins, it doesn’t mean we’ll be able to figure out how to stop them. It’s just something to do. More data to gather. Hopefully it will all lead somewhere.”

As they watched the screen, Fogg noted the date in the upper-left corner of the screen going backward as fewer and fewer possible incidents appeared in different populated areas of the world. Eventually they got so small that she realized these events had gone unnoticed in large cities around the world. Only the portals of the last few days had been large enough to gain the world’s attention. The number of portals on the screen got smaller and smaller until only two remained—in Kathmandu, and in northern Norway. Fogg pointed to the one in Nepal.

“How large would that one be?” she wanted to know.

“About the size of a panel truck, probably.”

The next date, a week earlier, was of a portal about the same size, and it showed up in Norway again. It was now the last portal on the map. Then another on the previous day in Norway. Then another a few weeks earlier. These events were smaller than the one in Kathmandu. But she noticed they were all in the same town.

“Fenris Kystby. Hey, isn’t that the—”

“—the town where Rook is.” Aleman’s face was shocked. “He’s been at the source this whole time.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

ROOK SAT ZIP-TIED to the metal chair and seethed. Fossen had led him to a small office off the main room with the giant metal apparatus. His pet dire wolf had followed at a distance, walking on all fours, curious and sniffing the air. Some of Fossen’s assistants were in the office—two men and a woman. They had secured Rook to the chair while Fossen kept his small pistol trained on him.

Rook didn’t recognize the people, but he knew the glazed look they had in their eyes. It was the same look the town’s villagers had that morning, when they attacked him at Peder’s farm. The assistants wore lab coats like Fossen and once they secured Rook to the chair, they left the room.

Rook scanned the space, but it mostly resembled a regular office. Desks and chairs—although the styles were pretty out of date—and a few far-newer laptop computers. The walls were white, and a large glass window looked out to the massive chamber with the metal octopus-like machinery. Fossen ignored Rook and consulted a laptop at one of the desks. Rook kept waiting for the man to start monologuing like a comic book villain, but the stoic Norwegian wasn’t inclined to oblige.

“You lied to me,” Rook tried.

“Actually, Stanislav,” Fossen looked up from the screen of his laptop and considered Rook. “If you carefully consider everything I told you, you will find that I did not lie to you at all. I told you to leave Fenris Kystby when we first met. I really didn’t know what Edmund Kiss had become, or that it was he that was destroying Peder’s livestock. I lost my son Jens to that monster.”

Rook didn’t think it a good idea to correct Fossen and inform him that he had killed Jens Fossen. It had been self-defense, but Rook didn’t think Fossen would care. A son is a son. Peder had helped him dispose of the body. He simply disappeared. It was only natural that Fossen assumed the creature Edmund Kiss had been responsible.

“I told you the truth about my research with the wolves. I admitted to you that I had known about Kiss’s lab, but that I had forgotten it even existed—because it had been shut down years ago, when this larger installation was constructed. You asked me why Kiss’s lab was called Ragnarök. I told you I had no idea why. I really don’t. It was something the German Ahnenerbe group came up with. Kiss was a part of their research. Part of their group. I didn’t tell you about this installation because it wasn’t your business. But I never lied to you.”

Rook looked at the man in astonishment. “You just found it unnecessary to share information about this giant lab—which connects to the smaller lab upstairs. You didn’t bother mentioning that Kiss was your father. You didn’t mention anything about a Nazi experiment in World War II or that you had a pet marshmallow with teeth.” Rook motioned his head toward the dire wolf that sat quietly in the corner on its haunches. “Is that the Ulveria? The dire wolf, the local woman Anni was afraid of?”

“Yes, indeed. It is.” Fossen just looked at Rook with a blank expression. No questions and no more information forthcoming.

“You didn’t tell me about zombie people coming to kill me. And Kiss wanted you to seal something. He said he’d seen the dire wolf and it was terrible. Looking at it now I’d have to agree with him.”

“When could you have spoken to Kiss? He was beyond speech when we tracked him down and killed him. He was little more than a yeti.” Now Fossen was interested. His eyebrows raised high on his pale Nordic forehead as he waited for an answer.

“He had a note clutched in his hand. It was for you. Part of it was illegible. He still retained some of his human intelligence at the end, and he wrote the note for you. He urged you to seal something. What was it?”

Fossen turned his head to gaze out the huge pane of glass at the giant metal cage in the main room. He turned back to Rook, then looked down to his laptop screen again and typed a quick key sequence. The clacking noise of the keyboard was loud in the small room. With a flourish, Fossen hit the Enter key.

In the other room a small sphere of yellow light appeared in the center of the eight-beam structure that still reminded Rook of an oversized Faraday cage. The light was no more than a foot in diameter. Then there was a loud popping noise. The ball grew to nearly thirty feet in diameter, filling the space between the curving struts of the structure. It threw bursts of lightning, only to be caught by the solar panel-like sheets of metal attached to the uprights. The whole thing crackled and hummed with a deep bass vibration. Rook could feel it in his chest.

“He wanted me to seal that.”

THIRTY-NINE

Exxon Building, New York, NY

KING FELT HE was losing himself inside the dreamy world that had filled his head. His vision clouded at the edges and everything in front of him looked bright and cheerful. He smiled so big his cheeks hurt.

The tiny voice at the back of his head trying to regain control needed something to hang on to—something that it could use to keep itself anchored in his brain. Something… But that voice was weak now. Weak and insignificant. He still stood in front of the wall of light, staring at the yellow brilliance. He could hear the hum and crackle from the portal crossing the barrier from somewhere else to his world. The dire wolves were still moving around him and smelling him. He could smell them, too, but only faintly. They smelled like talcum powder and the soft fur of stuffed animals. But had they always smelled that way?

He didn’t think so.

It didn’t matter. No point in worrying about it. He felt great. Happy, calm and full of contentment.

Wasn’t he unhappy before the portal and the dire wolves?

Wasn’t he considering spending more time with Fiona and Sara?

Fiona…

Every time he thought of Fiona and his responsibility for her, the part of his mind that really was him gained strength. The only other thing that the tiny voice could find to cling to was a question. And that small part of his mind held on to it as if it were a life preserver in thirty-foot swells at sea.

Why?

Why had he been mentally hijacked? Why hadn’t Deep Blue been affected? Was it something from the light the portal emitted? No, that didn’t work. He would have seen the portal too, but Deep Blue was gone now. King lazily swiveled his head around the corridor, looking away from the bright light of the portal. Several more dire wolves filled the hallway and crouched on the walls and upside down on the ceiling.

“Cool, man” he said.

No. Not cool. How did they get here? You didn’t even see them come out of the portal did you?

Then he felt the tiny voice shrinking again.

Why?

Fiona. Remember Fiona.

The voice grew stronger and tried to work out the mystery of why again. How long had he been here in the hallway? He turned his head again and looked down the corridor past the dire wolves that clung to every surface.

Deep Blue isn’t here anymore.

A clanging bell sounded somewhere deep inside of him, like a big red wall-mounted number used in older elementary schools. But it was so soft. Almost beyond the range of his hearing.

He was worried, that’s what it was. Deep Blue was more than a teammate and former President. He was a friend.

Where is he?

The voice noticed the shattered window at the end of the carpeted hallway. The smile on his face faded slowly, hesitantly, as if it wasn’t sure it wanted to contribute to a look of concern on his face. Smiling was so good and right.

Fiona. Where’s Fiona?

No, the small voice shouted from the black depths of his hind-mind, she’s safe in New Hampshire. Safe with Endgame. Endgame. That’s right. Deep Blue…

He had turned back and stared at the wall of light again. He hadn’t even been aware of turning away from the sight of the shattered window. Damn. He turned again to look down the corridor, but this time he did so slower and more deliberately. The smile that had crept back onto his face remained, but he was afraid to battle it. Whatever had control of him was incredibly strong, and the nature of his bliss as a weapon prevented him from even noticing when he was being attacked. One battle at a time. Why? How?

He dimly recalled Deep Blue wearing a parachute. He must have bugged out. But why? His thoughts rapidly returned to his own predicament and used the mantra that was allowing him to retain even a sliver of control over his senses.

Fiona.

How was the portal controlling him? Or were the dire wolves doing it? It wasn’t the light. It wouldn’t have been a physical attack or an auditory one. He was protected against that. He slowly slid his hand up to touch the side of his cheek. He felt the rough stubble there. He hadn’t shaved since leaving the hotel for Epcot.

Fiona.
When did I take off the helmet? He looked down at himself. He was still wearing the rest of the armor. So I was wearing the helmet before, and the only things coming in the helmet were light and…air.

It was something in the air. He recalled that Deep Blue was not wearing an armor helmet—he wore the special helmet Aleman had helped design for him. The black one with the computer displays. And Deep Blue had said it had air-scrubbing filters that could remove close to 98% of contaminants in the atmosphere that he breathed. So it wouldn’t have been a gas that was controlling King, or else Deep Blue might have been affected, too.

Why? Fiona. What then? Something airborne but not as potent as a gas? Frustration welled up in the back of King’s mind and he was surprised to find it a potent remedy for his artificial bliss. He was used to fighting, but fighting with hands and weapons on a battlefield or in an alley in some Third World backwater. He could handle frigid polar wastes and arid desert climes. This sort of cerebral fight was new to him and he wasn’t sure how to go about it. He couldn’t isolate the enemy, its methods or its motives.

Fiona. She’s safe and that is the most important thing. The next was figuring out how to get out of the happy trap. Frustration was good. Maybe anger will be better? He willed himself to be angry, but soon felt himself slipping into distraction and forgot what he was trying to do. He almost lost it altogether, when his thoughts again turned to those he loved and—

Fiona!

Why?

How?

In the air.

I’m breathing it.
Can I hold my breath long enough for the effect to stop?

But then another idea occurred to King. He turned his head again back to the broken window at the end of the hallway. The gaping grin was still on his face but he made no move to change that. He would need all his willpower to accomplish what he had planned. First, he took a breath and held it. Not a deep gulp but a covert intake. The dire wolves that lined the hall still looked at him occasionally, sniffing the air. If this worked, he didn’t want to alert them that he was gaining control.

As he was about to initiate the second phase of his plan, an overwhelming urge to look at the portal swept through him like a tornado ripping up trailer homes in the Midwest. He squeezed his eyes shut, and still holding his breath, repeated his daughter’s name again and again. His head buzzed from the lack of oxygen and from the monotony of the mantra, but he felt the urge to look at the light slip away from him.

When the desire became manageable again, he forced that small but growing voice to let out a scream in his head.

Walk!

He took a step away from the portal, toward the opening, the daylight and the city street at the end of the corridor. He opened his eyes and the hallway looked to stretch into the horizon like a perspective drawing, dwindling down into a tiny dot.

He felt dizzy now from lack of air but refused to breathe again. He took a second step. The smile on his face wanted to diminish. The artificiality of it wanted to fade. Not completely, but from a shit-eating grin to a smirk. He refused to let it and kept the grimace of a smile in place. Another step and another, past a dire wolf on the left wall. It smelled him as he passed, but made no move toward him.

He took a chance and reached out his hand and stroked the creature’s neck, smiling still. The creature didn’t move. Its skin no longer felt like soft down. More like rubber. How much did this attack alter my perceptions? But that line of questioning cost him control, so he returned his thoughts to Fiona and walking. Forcing all his will onto those two thoughts. The edges of his vision began to blur a bit, but he could still see. His lungs struggled to get to fresh air, but he denied them. Another step and past another dire wolf. Two more between him and the window.

The effort was taking its toll and he could feel a trickle of sweat on his forehead, dripping toward his left eyebrow. He closed his eyes and focused on Fiona. The grin slipped. The sweat dripped off his eyebrow and down his eyelid. He opened his eye and the lid flicked the remaining liquid away. Two more steps. The smile was down to just a notion now, and he let it go. It wouldn’t matter soon. He passed another dire wolf, this one moving slowly along the ceiling toward the portal over his head. He ducked a little as it passed him, but he kept his speed the same—deliberately slow.

Then he felt it. The November Manhattan breeze on his face, gusting in from the shattered window forty stories above the asphalt. He pulled air in through his nostrils, slowly, testing it. The breath made him happier, but not loopy. Good. One mystery solved. It was the air. He took another step, past a dire wolf crouched on the floor. This one swiveled its head to follow his stroll. Does it know? Does it suspect?

Three more steps and he would be right next to the shattered window. He drew in another lungful of air and slowly exhaled. Crisp and cold, the always-static acrid tang of New York on his tongue. But happy? Not too much. He was nearly out of the zone of influence, which must have been the portal, because the dire wolf behind him was still within arm’s reach. If it was emitting the bliss, then King reasoned he would still be feeling the full effect at this end of the hall.

He took another step into the fresh air and heard movement behind him.

He turned to see that all five of the dire wolves in the corridor were now keenly staring at him, their ten bulbous eyes locked on target.

King stood stock still, and smiled wide. The biggest, goofiest court jester grin he could manage.

The dire wolves, three on the floor, one on the ceiling, and one on the wall all looked back at him. They each turned their heads in unison, facing their snouts at him. Their mouths opened wide. All King could see were teeth. Hundreds of pointy incisors, like sharpened crystals. The dire wolf farthest away roared. The others rushed along the walls, ceiling and floor.

He had just seconds to act or die.

FORTY

River Thames, London, England

BISHOP HELD TIGHTLY to the metal bar, helpless to stop the fragmented Ferris wheel from plummeting into the Thames, and certain he was about to die.

The wheel warped down to the muddy river. Saving the girls in the steel-and-glass cage was no longer possible. He held on with all he had as the wheel tipped out over the river. Four-hundred feet down, but the ride took only a few seconds.

At the last moment before his capsule hit the murky brown of the Thames, he considered leaping off the structure, to improve his chances of surviving the fall. But a split second of indecision was one second too many. He was out of time.

The capsule he stood on was the last part of the large wheel to reach the river. As the base of the wheel struck and sunk, his descent slowed some, but Bishop didn’t notice as the water rushed up toward him. A wave roared up, striking the capsule and slamming Bishop down against its roof. He coughed as his ribs and lungs compressed from the impact. His head spun, but he remained conscious, protected by the armor, which was living up to its reputation. Thick, brown river water coated Bishop, stealing his vision.

He dropped again, as the wave receded, and the wheel began to sink.

He looked through the capsule window; his hands still clenched around the metal bar he had used as a handhold during the descent. His grip tightened in anger. The three teen girls were dead. Their bodies had slammed against the steel and glass in the plunge. Murky tan water filled the shattered capsule. He could see two bodies floating and the third girl’s fractured head looked like a split-open watermelon left to wilt in the sun.

The very top of the capsule was still above the water level, but the rest had submerged. He turned, looking behind him at the crunched and mangled frame of the London Eye, which now resembled a toy construction kit hastily shoved into a container with bits sticking up in all the wrong ways. Bishop turned his attention to the bridge, searching for Knight. But the Crescent had retreated further along the river. Where is he?

Then Bishop saw him through the murk coating his helmet’s visor. He quickly unfastened the catch buckle at the side of his throat and pulled the helmet off his recently shaved head. The cold of the air hit him and the rain spattered down on his face as he watched his friend being carried away by a dire wolf toward a portal.

He nearly dove into the river with the plan to swim to the Embankment, but he wouldn’t have time and his armor would drag him down into the depths of the river.

“Shit, shit, shit!” He reached to his earpiece to call the pilot back to him. But it was too late. Knight was stabbing the back of the white thing’s neck over and over, but then they were in the portal.

And suddenly it, too, was gone, leaving a tremendous hole in the side of Portcullis Building’s lower corner. Missing the struc-tural support the corner of the building provided, the rest crumbled in a heap of stone, sending a plume of dust up into the rain. The billowing cloud looked like a miniature nuclear detonation.

“Black One, this is Bishop. I’m in the river, north of the bridge. Come get me before I drown.” Bishop spat into the water. The remains of the Ferris wheel were still sinking slightly as water filled the capsule with the dead girls. Bishop smashed the helmet onto the glass of the capsule, his normal calm demeanor gone, along with his friend and half of London. The impact lined the glass, but the helmet bounced away into the brown swirling water and sank.

“On my way. The door or the rope?” The hovering ship banked sharply and raced back over the bridge and above Bishop’s head before slowly beginning to lower.

“Rope will do.” Bishop said.

The black nylon rope dangling from the still open door of the craft came within his reach. Bishop didn’t bother with the belay device—he just wrapped the rope around his arm a few times and shouted, “Go!”

“Where to Bishop?” Came the reply from the co-pilot, Black Two.

“To the next nearest portal. I’m going after him.” Bishop grunted as the Crescent’s engines blasted, increasing altitude until he was nearly as high as he had been on top of the Eye. The plane accelerated, swinging him on the rope, banking away from the river and over the top of Big Ben.

“But the device the MOD is bringing…” Black Two’s voice was hesitant, but he was right. The mission was to get the nuke inside the portal.

“If those lame dicks ever get here, tell them to throw the thing in after me.”

Bishop could see the next portal on the edge of the duck pond in St. James’s Park up ahead, filling the green clearing set aside in the middle of the gray city. He took a deep breath of the rainy air and made up his mind.

“Lower. Then do a flyover.”

“Roger,” came Black One’s reply.

The Crescent dipped a bit and the rope swung Bishop directly at the globe of crackling and spitting yellow fire. As the rain pelted it, the portal spit miniature lightning bolts, making this one look like it had electric hair. Bishop could smell the singed air as he got close. The rope swung right through the curvature of the wall of bright light, taking Bishop’s body with it.

A second later, as the Crescent sped past the globe, the rope swung out the other side of the sphere of light.

Bishop wasn’t on it.

FORTY-ONE

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

QUEEN TENSED IN the dark. As the door rattled from the other side, she prepared to lunge.

The door swung open easily and a woman in a lab coat with short spiky blonde hair stepped into the room, without any hint of caution. The woman simply stood in the darkened room as if she couldn’t remember why she had come in. Light streamed in from the outside with a pulsing electrical quality that made Queen certain that it came from something large, like a spotlight.

She had been in the room for what felt like hours. She was wedged between two walls of the room, in the corner up by the ceiling. Her feet were braced in the open air vent and her hands rested on the frame over the door. Between her hands, like a garrote, she clutched the wire from the lightbulb she had pulled down. The cord’s coarse black insulating rubber dug into her fingers. She was ready to kill, but she stayed her attack, even in the awkward position. The woman hadn’t noticed her, and she didn’t display any alarm at finding the light out or at finding the room empty.

She just stood there, looking into the empty space.

Then the woman casually turned and walked out of the doorway. The door began to swing shut after her, but Queen quickly allowed one end of her weapon to unravel from the hand that had been braced on the doorframe, balancing herself on one arm, over the door closer. Once the thick insulation was in the crack of the door, she let the door swing nearly shut, where the wire stopped it from closing entirely. She dropped to the floor, landing in a silent crouch.

She paused, straining to hear anything from outside the door, but heard nothing. She stood and cautiously peered around the door, and out the crack. The woman walked away along the high metal catwalk near the roof of the huge room where Queen had come in with Rook and Asya. But that had been hours ago. Only one of the overhead Klieg lights lit the giant room, leaving the huge space shadowed and dim. Whatever brightness had been making the gigantic space crackle before was gone now. As Queen watched, the woman in the lab coat continued along the metal of the catwalk, her footsteps clanging in the silence as she went. Her posture was weird. The woman looked like she didn’t know where she was going or what she was doing. When she reached the top of the metal stairs leading down to the floor of the room and the intricate metal finger-like shape that filled it, she just stopped.

Queen ducked back into the room briefly, but when she heard no noise, she once again looked out the crack. The woman was simply standing and looking out across the massive room.

She’s acting like a robot.

Queen took a halting step out onto the catwalk. The woman remained inert. Queen took another soft step out of the room and fully onto the metal of the catwalk. At this section of the walkway, a solid plate sat on top of the grill that formed the catwalk around the room. She had noticed that there was a solid plate to stand on in front of every door around the walkway, when she explored earlier. The spiky-haired, frozen woman stood on a similar plate at the top of the stairs. Queen checked her surroundings and made sure she was alone with the woman. She couldn’t see the stairwell below, because of the plate’s placement, but she could see the rest of the room, down to the machinery at the bottom of the cavernous space and back along the walkway behind her. She noted the door that led to the tunnel through which they had entered the facility.

It was when she took a step off the metal plate and onto the see-through metal grating of the catwalk, that she sensed something was wrong. The small wispy white-blonde hairs on the back of her neck began to stand up. She tightened her hold on her makeshift garrote and froze in place, just like the lab-coated woman ahead of her. But nothing happened. Nothing in her line of sight was moving. The robot-like woman stood statue still.

What the hell?

Every sense she had told her to run, but she couldn’t detect danger from any direction. She turned and looked behind her again.

Nothing.

As her eyes scanned back toward her own position, she looked down at the grating. She could see through the grill and under the metal slab behind her.

The creature hung in a crouch, upside down, like a bat, from the underside of the catwalk, just under the metal plate. It was larger than the one she had killed, and its translucent domed head was bigger than her chest. Muscles bulged under its ghost-like skin. Its bulbous eyes, the size of grapefruits, regarded her. She could sense a silent countdown happening. Soon it would strike.

But Queen showed no fear. Instead, she returned the creature’s stare, imagining a hundred different ways she might be able to kill it. Size was an advantage, but as the only woman in Special Forces, she was accustomed to fighting larger adversaries and used her lower center of gravity, surprising strength and ruthless techniques to overcome them all. Of course, most of them didn’t have teeth and claws. Then again, some did.

The thing scrambled to the side rail of the catwalk and began to climb up over it. Queen rushed it with her homemade weapon, and as its head cleared the rail, she rammed the insulated cord across the beast’s throat and shoved hard. The monster’s white body was in an awkward position, its claws only barely holding on as it had tried to vault over the rail to attack her. The clear claws slid on the slick metal. She could hear a screeching noise as the last two nails lost traction. Then the creature shot away from her and down to the floor. The lack of resistance was so sudden that she nearly lost her own balance and went over after the thing.

She stayed leaning over the rail long enough to watch the white animal-looking thing hit the concrete at the bottom of the room, bursting into a thick oozing fluid that splattered the machinery all around it.

Good.

Then, as she shot her eyes back to robot-woman, she saw what had impeded her path. Three more of the bastards on the stairs, and now one crouched on the railing at the top, level with the woman, who stood stock-still. All three of them had their strange external eyes swiveled down to take in the sight of their fallen comrade. Then as one, they swiveled their eyes up to look at Queen.

Time to go.

She turned and sprinted for the door down the catwalk that led to the tunnel and the older, abandoned part of the lab. She could hear the claws scraping and skittering along the metal walkway behind her as she flung the door open and pitched herself into the darkness of the tunnel. Her headlamp was gone. She had no time to be careful. She just ran, remembering as she went the long brick tunnel and the secret room at the end.

But this tunnel brought back her memory of the other. She bashed her fist against the ceiling a few times, as she ran. It was so low that she could easily reach it, even though the walls were far apart. She felt the dust cascade down on her in the dark, but she didn’t know if it would be enough to slow the creatures. She couldn’t hear them behind her, but she knew they made it into the tunnel before the outer door swung closed, removing even a trace of light. Finally, she found a brick that was loose. She halted in the dark and took a step back, reaching her fingers up to find it again. She played her fingertips over the rough stone and the fractured mortar until she felt the wobble. Then she banged on it again, with the bottom of her fist. It lurched under her strike. She worked her fingers into the crack and tried to pry it out, but it wouldn’t come loose. It was like a marble inside someone’s hand—it spun freely, but wouldn’t come out of the grip.

In the dark behind her, she heard a scratching noise. Crap, she thought. Break the hand. She struck the ceiling again with her fist, and then again. She punched up at the stones and pounded them with the bottom of her fist. She heard one of the surrounding bricks crack and then she heard something else sliding in the dark behind her.

Something close.

She hit the brick above her again and felt something in her own hand break. It wasn’t the first time she had broken a bone in her hand. Probably the 5th metacarpal. Boxer’s fracture. She recognized the sensation, but the urgency in her mind made her shut the pain out. She hit the ceiling again and the stones surrounding her target brick crumbled, raining debris down in the stygian tunnel. Now she attempted to pry the brick again, and it came loose in her broken hand. She swapped the insulated wire for the brick and now used her good hand to smash it into the ceiling and the gaping wound she had created by prying out the brick. She could feel more dirt cascading down around her wrist.

Then she got an idea and moved her body to the other side of the tiny spray of falling dirt. She wrapped the wire around her torso in the dark, and shoved the brick fragment between her knees. She then reached up and dug the fingers of both hands into the soil beyond the brick ceiling. When she had a good grip, she hung from the bricks and used her weight to swing forward. She kicked out in the dark and two things happened. The first was unexpected, but the second was just what she was hoping for.

Her feet connected with something solid before she had the chance to extend her legs fully. She had planted her feet on the chest of one of the creatures. She wasted no time in tugging hard with her upper body strength. Several of the bricks gave way under her weight, pulling a section of the ceiling down on top of the beast and onto her legs. The tunnel filled with choking dust, but she had been expecting it and held her breath.

With nothing to cling to anymore, she fell to the floor with the shattered ceiling. She quickly scrambled backward on her ass, shoving with her feet and clawing back with her hands. She lost her brick weapon, but there were plenty to choose from now. She checked and found the insulated wire still hanging from her waist. She wrapped it around her broken hand. Then she grabbed the first piece of rubble she could find—half a brick—with the other hand and raced deeper into the darkness of the tunnel.

As she ran, she got angrier at the creatures behind her in the dusty darkness. She took breaths as she ran and tasted dirt in the air, but it was nothing like the cloud of dust from the ceiling collapse. She kept one hand in front of her and waited for the impact with the secret spinning wall. It was farther down the tunnel than she remembered it, but when she hit it, she felt it move smoothly on its axis.

The room on the other side of the spinning wall was as dark as the tunnel, but she remembered the way well enough. She found the door and turned left, heading across the small room toward the first tunnel—the one that led her up and out. She got angrier at the thought of leaving Rook and the Russian woman behind her. But she knew she couldn’t fight the white creatures here in the dark, and they had been between her and the rest of the lab, back on the catwalk. She reached the tunnel just as she heard a door slam open behind her.

Crap, they’re close.

She used her fragment of rubble to smash along the wall as she made her way down the original tunnel to the metal ladder, sending small waves of sand and grit through the air in the dark behind her. She felt the dirt pelting the skin on her face as she ran. She misjudged the distance down this tunnel too, slamming her face into the metal of the ladder in the darkness. She reeled from the impact, dropping her brick fragment. She caught herself from falling backward by grabbing the ladder rung with her broken hand. A fresh wave of pain shot up her arm. She grunted, but most of the pain was drowned out by her rising fury.

Holding tightly to the insulated wire, she grabbed the rungs above her in the dark and climbed the ladder. When she reached the top, she forced her weight behind the flipping door that wore the fake bush like a feather-capped Royal attending Prince Harry’s wedding. It was heavy, but it closed quickly.

She launched herself out and into a newly fallen snowdrift. Snow poured down from the sky in tiny jagged clumps—not quite sleet, but not quite snow.

Queen rolled away from the hatch and into the snow, relishing the weather. The sun had gone down, but the moon must have been up somewhere. She couldn’t see it, but light was trapped between the two-foot layer of fresh snow on the ground and the low-lying clouds above her head. It reflected back and forth off the two surfaces making everything nearly as bright as day. She had seen a similar effect before, on a skiing trip in Flagstaff.

She couldn’t have asked for a better battleground.

She knew she should probably run. Get help. Call in the cavalry. But that could take hours. Maybe longer. If something happened to Rook...

Queen shook her head. Not an option.

“C’mon, you see-through assholes. I’m waiting,” she whispered, clutching the rubber-coated wire.

FORTY-TWO

Midtown, New York, NY

DEEP BLUE PULLED the trigger on the confetti launcher as soon as the elevator doors parted. Instantly the hallway was a riot of white, pink, and pastel greens and blues, as shredded paper filled the air with a loud popping noise. The effect was surreal. Everything that had been moving a second earlier—King and the five dire wolves—just stopped as if turned to stone.

Even with the colorful airborne flak, Deep Blue knew he wouldn’t have much time. King was near the shattered window and the dire wolves were between them, stopped where they had been and so still that he couldn’t even see an eyeball moving. He wasted no time in firing on the dire wolves with the MP5. He ran through the falling confetti as he fired. He aimed at three of the beasts and drilled two of them in the eye, hitting a third in the chest, before the first two managed to fall off the walls, where they had crouched sideways.

As Deep Blue got up to where King stood, he could see that King had regained his senses but was unarmed. A quick peek back toward the portal showed King’s weapon on the floor, just in front of the glowing wall. Two dire wolves stood hunched over by the walls further down the hall, between him and the rifle. It was a loss. But the other thing wasn’t on the floor at all.

“Jack, where’s the nuke?”

“Sorry, Boss. I chucked it into the portal when I was under its control, but I forgot to arm it. The portal is putting something in the air—”

“Yeah, I got that part. I—”

“They’re moving again.” King pointed down the hallway.

King was right. The confetti had mostly fluttered to the floor. Deep Blue leveled the second confetti cannon he had nabbed from the nearby party supply store and fired it high in the air. One of the two dire wolves ran headlong at them and King snatched the pistol from its holster on Deep Blue’s leg. He fired three shots at the creature and hit its head each time, but the beast kept barreling toward them down the hallway.

“Look out!” Deep Blue shoved King into a door marked Stairs that had no handle—just a metal hand plate for pushing. King slammed into the door and it opened wide, spilling him onto the landing. At the same time, Deep Blue gambled that with the confetti in the air, the charging dire wolf really couldn’t see but was just striking out where it had last seen them. When the beast was nearly on him, Deep Blue lunged to the side, against the hallway wall. The dire wolf ran right past him and out the shattered window, into open space.

Deep Blue looked out the window to see the animal fall. Olé! he thought. Then he leveled the MP5 at the remaining dire wolf. This one had been content to wait for the confetti to settle, but its eyes swiveled in anticipation of being free to move unobstructed through the soon-to-be-clear air. Deep Blue put a burst of bullets in its cranium. The skull erupted in a gout of ichor resembling warm mayonnaise. The perforated beast sank to the floor as King was getting to his feet.

“You back to your normal self?” Deep Blue looked King up and down.

“Completely. Fresh air from the broken window helped. Shit. More of them!” King opened fire down the hallway as more of the creatures crawled and ran out of the wall of yellow light. As Deep Blue looked, he realized they wouldn’t be able to hold off that many.

And he was out of confetti.

“The stairs,” he said.

King stopped firing and bolted into the stairwell.

Deep Blue followed at his heels. “They were all over the outside of the building too. Keasling’s men are having a hard time of it.”

King leaned over the railing and looked down the stairwell, but turned quickly back to Deep Blue, his face grim. “Too many. Up!”

Deep Blue sprinted up the stairs until he hit the landing. King was still at the bottom of the stairs and fired as soon as the door opened, cracking the skull of the first dire wolf through the door. The body’s momentum carried it forward and down the lower flight of stairs to the next landing.

Deep Blue covered the door from the upper landing as King raced up the industrial gray steps to meet him. Just as King reached the landing, another creature leapt through the door and Deep Blue blasted it with a carefully controlled burst.

They continued up flight after flight of stairs, carefully picking off any of the monsters that got too close. When King passed a foam fire extinguisher on the wall of the 45th floor, he halted and nimbly unlatched the bright red tank from the wall. He then leaned over the railing and blasted the contents of the extinguisher down the space between the flights of stairs. It was a narrow space, but it was enough for the burst of white foam to spatter into the air and cascade down several floors. The extinguisher ran dry as the first dire wolf reached a landing below them, stopped and opened its jaws in a snarl that looked almost comical.

Deep Blue fired two shots at it before the MP5 ran dry.

King threw the empty fire extinguisher canister down the flight of stairs, knocking the animal back and off balance slightly. Then he pulled up the pistol he had taken from Deep Blue. He had only one round left and no more magazines, so he aimed carefully and then fired.

The creature’s head crumpled inward. The bullet liquefied the brains, exited the back of the skull and pulled the white slurry out with it, splattering white gore across the wall. His stomach turned at the sight. If only I could unsee some of this shit. He turned and raced up the next flight of stairs with Deep Blue. The much-older man had managed to reload the MP5 faster than King had ever seen anyone do.

“How many more magazines?” He asked.

“Last one. Run faster.”

As though in response, the horde of dire wolves on the steps below resumed their loud pursuit, closing the distance.

FORTY-THREE

Somewhere

EVERYTHING WAS A deep rich shade of midnight blue.

Everything.

The bleak cloudless sky, the rocky ground littered with small round stones, and the distant, jagged, impossibly tall cliffs. Chunks of London that had passed through the portal were scattered around the area: building rubble, a street sign, a dead bird and half of a car, its occupants missing. As Shin Dae-jung, callsign: Knight, looked around the alien landscape, his eyes kept struggling to comprehend the complete lack of variation in the color of things. It made looking at things hurt. He had taken refuge behind some boulders to deal with the overwhelming sensation of nausea he felt while his eyes tried to perceive and adjust to the monotone surroundings. He strained to focus on the cliffs and to differentiate them from the sky. He considered removing his armored helmet for fear of vomiting inside it, but didn’t think it wise. He focused on controlling his body and his stomach contents stayed down. He activated the night-vision optics built in to the helmet’s visor and the night changed to a dim day. The technology amplified available light, but there wasn’t much of it. Still, the shades of green in the night-vision view had a few more contrasts than the overwhelming palette of blue did.

The air tasted metallic, like dirty coins, but was breathable. He deactivated the audio dampener—it would help more at this stage if he could hear dire wolves approaching. The place was deathly still.

He didn’t hear anything.

No wind, no animals or insects. Just vast emptiness.

Aleman was right. This isn’t our world—or dimension—or whatever. Everything about the place is wrong, or my perception of it is.

The land was flat and rocky, except for the cliffs on the horizon. Knight stood and surveyed the sight. No sign of dire wolves on the open plain. He remembered they could really move when they were on a stretch of flat open ground, so he figured they had all just raced off to the horizon while his stomach was doing flip-flops. That or they went underground somewhere.

With no rifle, no pistol and now only the corpse of the dire wolf he had stabbed and his KA-BAR knife to keep him company, Knight kept scanning the plains for a sign of another portal. If he found one, he would rush for it and try to use it to get back to the world—his world.

He knelt down and examined the corpse that was missing its feet and legs below the shin. The wounds were cauterized completely. Knight poked one of the stumps with the tip of his knife to see how thick the scar tissue was. Eventually, with enough pressure, the knife slipped through the skin and a pearl of thick fluid oozed from the puncture. He looked over the rest of the creature up close. It had foggy transparent skin, like a jellyfish. It was muscular. The eyes were weird as hell. The mouth was full of clear sharp teeth ranging between one and two inches in length. The claws, like the teeth, were transparent and deadly. He picked up the creature’s limp arm and placed the sharp blade against the clear skin and made an incision that cut all the way to the bone. After wiping off the blade and sheathing it, he pulled open the wound and looked at the bone. Clear. Like glass. He could see the tube of gray marrow running down its core.

He looked up at the bleak sky. Something about this world made the creatures evolve this way. He remembered what Black Five said about how alternate dimensions could be similar, but also incredibly different. Was it the atmosphere? The sun? Or simply a completely different set of physical laws? With no way to find out, and no new insights on how to kill the creatures, beyond putting a bullet in them, Knight put the arm down and stood. One more unsolved mystery.

The variant shades of night-vision green showed no life signs and no portals. He prepared his stomach and then deactivated the night vision and looked out through the normal visor view for a sign of a portal. The view was less unsettling now that he knew to expect the constant shade of midnight. Still, nothing that looked like a portal, a structure or a living creature. He reactivated the night vision and turned to face the distant cliffs. They were the only aberration in what seemed to be otherwise endless rocky plains.

Cliffs it is, then.

With the knife in hand, he began walking. He took only a handful of steps before he became convinced that someone—or something—was watching him. He looked around, but still saw nothing but the plains. He kept walking toward the cliffs, switching the night vision on and off occasionally, just to be sure that one spectrum of light wasn’t preventing him from seeing something that the other might reveal. Nothing.

So he walked. The feeling that something was following him—or just observing him—remained. As a sniper, he knew that feeling. The feeling of having a long barrel targeting your every move, ready to send death with a few pounds of pressure on a sliver of metal. He was on the other end of that feeling, but recognized it in his targets when, as though warned by some sixth sense, they turned and looked directly at him. He was usually too far away to actually be seen, but if anyone ever did see him, they died with the image.

When he came to a small pile of waist-high boulders, he dove behind them and rolled to a stop on the other side. In the dive, he turned his head and looked back behind him. Old submarine commanders called an abrupt change of direction ‘clearing the baffles.’ The idea was to change course unexpectedly, allowing you to see a stealthy pursuer. But like with his other attempts to spot any pursuit, which he was convinced of now, he saw nothing.

Dejected, Knight resumed his trek to the cliffs. They were further than he had thought. He felt like he had walked for at least an hour, but the cliffs appeared no closer. He felt ravenously hungry and reached into a canvas pouch on the outside of the armored suit, withdrawing a high-energy protein bar. He squatted on his haunches, turning as he did so, clearing the baffles again, but as usual, he saw only the rocky field around him. He took off the helmet and ate the protein bar, trying not to fully taste its chalky flavor. The suit had a built in Camelbak water reservoir. He removed the plastic tube from its holster on his left shoulder and bit down on the valve, sucking the warm water into his body to flush the debris of the protein bar down. He took another gulp and then put the tube away. He didn’t know how long the water would last him, but he figured it would be better to conserve it.

He put the helmet back on and activated night vision again, then resumed his walk. He checked the Suunto watch on his wrist, but found it had been damaged in the fight with the dire wolf on the bridge. The face was cracked, and a piece of the plastic bezel stuck out at a weird angle. He considered just ditching the thing, but then realized he’d be making a trail on the rocky ground. He stopped and squatted again, but this time, it was to pick up one of the many flat round stones on the ground. It looked like a flat skipping stone you would find near a river. He dropped it into a zippered pocket and resumed the march to the cliffs.

Eventually, he got tired and had to stop. The cliffs were still a distance off. He sat and removed the helmet. There was no cover anywhere, so he just sat in the middle of the rocky plain and took in the rich hues of navy blue that covered everything like a blanket of night. It felt like night to him too. He and Bishop had been on the go for how long? He looked at his watch again. Still broken. The bezel fragment had snapped off at some point. He rubbed his hand over his smooth face. He had never been able to grow a beard—with his Korean ancestry, his abilities to grow body hair were pretty limited. So a five o’clock shadow wouldn’t be arriving any time in the next decade to help him determine the passage of time. Ultimately, he realized it didn’t matter. However much time passed, he would get out of here as soon as he could. He would keep heading for the cliffs and he would do whatever it took.

Exhaustion began to take its toll on his body, and even though he sat cross-legged on the uncomfortable rocky ground, his head kept nodding. Eventually, he lay down on his side, his sleep-deprived mind rationalizing why it would be perfectly safe to do so, and how he would remain vigilant, nonetheless. He was a sniper after all. He was trained to stay awake in combat situations for days on end. He would be fine. There was nothing moving on the plain.

Then his mind cajoled him to allow himself just a few minutes of eyes-closed rest.

I won’t go to sleep deeply. Just a few minutes, that’s all.

And then he slept. Deeply.

For years.

FORTY-FOUR

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

ASYA CLOSED HER mouth, clamping off the scream before it was truly done. She swung the tiny LED light around the space. It was little more than a brick pit, really, just twenty feet in diameter and roughly circular. She played the light around the chamber and hoped for a door or a ladder, but the walls were uninterrupted.

And the whole pit was filled with heaps of the dead and desiccated corpses. Like little white stuffed animals in one of those crane-and-claw, coin-operated vending machine games. But there was no metal claw above her—instead, something moved beneath the heap of tiny bodies.

The mound shifted slowly.

Little bodies tumbled.

The corpses were almost cute, except for the rib bones poking out of the chests. The eyes were hardly pronounced but sat on the outside of the face, like halved grapes. The creatures had white skin that she could see through to the muscles and meat below it.

She began to breathe quickly, willing herself to overcome the fear paralyzing her. The thing under the mound moved again, in a zig-zagging motion. The floor of tiny dead performed a wave like the people at a sporting event.

It moves like a snake, she thought.

And then her paralysis broke. She lunged, clawing and scrabbling across the heaped dead, heading for the brick wall. As she moved her hands through the pile, crawling to the wall, the glow from her LED flashlight flared wildly in the space, throwing fast moving shadows around the pit.

She needed to get out. This place was wrong and horrible. Unnatural. Evil, the word came to her panicked mind unbidden. Evil.

She flailed through the bodies and reached the brick unmo-lested, but her mind, completely unhinged by fear, couldn’t comprehend that the slithering thing under the bodies had yet to grasp her ankle. She dug her fingers into the mortar between the bricks and found it was crumbly under her touch. She pulled herself up and placed her toes into the wide spaces between the bricks. She raced up the thirty-foot wall with balance a rock climber would have admired. She kept the LED light between her teeth, placed her toes and fingers into the cracks and didn’t look back.

When she reached the top, she threw herself over the lip, and onto the rough stone floor of the tunnel. She could see a blazing bright light at the end of the tunnel, back in the large laboratory. It was far brighter than the spotlights affixed to the ceiling, and she clung to the idea that bright light was her salvation from the atrocities in the pit.

Asya struggled to her feet and ran headlong toward the light. She abandoned all thoughts of stealth hoping to find Rook and Queen. But when she exited the mouth of the tunnel into the room though, another strange sight greeted her. The giant hand of metal—she recalled the gleaming chrome claw in the game with the stuffed animals, only this one was absurdly large and upside down, resting on the floor with its open claws stretching almost two hundred feet up to the ceiling—held something in its clutches now. A blazing sun, easily over a hundred feet in diameter, hovered between the metal struts of the claw. Small arcs of lightning shot out of the ball of crackling energy, but the lightning curved unnaturally backward, striking the large metal plates on the claw’s upright legs, harmlessly dissipating.

The light was incredibly bright, but the globe of electric fire felt appealing. It drew her closer. She stood directly in front of the pulsing light, all thoughts of her recent scare in the pit now gone from her mind. She just wanted to be near the light. It filled her with warmth, like the sun. Only this sun was for her. Her very own, personal star.

She smiled wide and exhaled a deep and contented sigh.

She didn’t notice, as five large white creatures that looked like grown versions of the dead babies, crawled out of the globe of brilliance and began to sniff the air around her.

FORTY-FIVE

Endgame Headquarters, White Mountains, NH

LEWIS ALEMAN SAT alone in a side office off the main corridor in Central that ran to the tram station, which would lead to another part of the base that housed a submarine dock. He had left Fogg and Pierce in the main computer control room. He needed just five minutes to himself to process what he had learned, before he reported to Deep Blue. That his boss had not reported in yet regarding his rescue attempt for King did not bode well. It meant they were still up to their necks in battle or dead.

He would have to attempt to contact them regardless. Too much had happened. Knight and Bishop were off the grid. Queen and Rook were in the same town as the source portal—a portal that had appeared regularly over the last few months, and in precisely the same location.

Aleman realized that someone had to be regulating the phenomenon. Not phenomenon, he thought. Attack.

The portals were appearing with increasing frequency around the globe and their strategy of dealing with the fallout caused by dire wolf attacks had led them nowhere. They needed to find whatever was causing the portals to appear and eliminate it. Before there wasn’t anything left of the planet. His quick research into the town of Fenris Kystby led exactly nowhere. There was no useful information about the place. It was a tiny town near the coast of northern Norway, well off the beaten track for tourists and natives alike. But the lack of any information on the Web was disturbing to Aleman. He could nearly always find something, about even the most obscure places in the world, even if it was just a farm report or a local carnival announcement. It was almost like any information about this place has been scoured away from the Web.

They knew the dire wolf was mentioned in Norse mythology. They had seen evidence that someone in Viking times had come across a dire wolf. They suspected repeated appearances of the portals in a town in Norway that no one had ever heard of. And Rook had called in earlier from the very same town and was facing mind-controlled people. Aleman didn’t know what it added up to, but he knew that the team was wasting its time in other locations. Norway is the source.

He stood from his office chair and touched the ear of his communications headset, then he voice-dialed Deep Blue. He paced back and forth across the rich blue carpet between the glass-walled air-conditioned closet of routers and servers and the desk the room held. He heard the connection go live with a tiny audible click.

“Kind of busy now, Lew. There’s shooting and running…” Deep Blue sounded out of breath. Aleman would keep the information about Bishop and Knight to himself for the moment.

“It’s going down in Norway. Norway is the source.”

“Son of a—that’s where Rook is.” Deep Blue’s voice came between heaving breaths. Aleman couldn’t hear any external sounds because of the audio dampener in Deep Blue’s helmet, but he could imagine the running and shooting, just fine. He’d experienced it during his previous years as a Delta operator before an injury sidelined him.

“Actually, it’s the same town Rook said he was in. Queen’s tracking chip show’s she’s there with him. If they’re not together, they’re close. We need to get over there. Time is running out.”

“What’s the…projection?”

“Maybe two days if the portals keep appearing at the same rate and keep growing in size. The one in Norway seems to have stabilized in size and intensity. And there’s something else. When the Norway portal has opened in the past, it hasn’t stayed on for longer than a few minutes. But it’s on now and has probably been acti-vated for close to a half an hour.”

“We’re…on our…way. Ready everyone who can fire a weapon. The whole White team. How are Bishop and Knight doing?”

“Didn’t work out.” Aleman changed the subject quickly. “I’ll take care of everything on my end. Anything else?”

“Nothing. Out.”

Aleman consoled himself that now wasn’t the time to tell Deep Blue about Bishop and Knight. Deep Blue would be checking on everything from his satellite uplink on the face display of the helmet as soon as the battle subsided enough for him to do so. He would see the complete absence of the tracking chips both Bishop and Knight unknowingly carried, with his GPS program. The man would understand the ramifications of the missing signals. They were either dead or they were trapped on the other side of the portals. Possibly both.

FORTY-SIX

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

ROOK WAS DUMBFOUNDED. Fossen had just flicked a switch and teleported a sun into the neighboring room.

A sun!

“What the hell? Is that a…a dwarf star?” Rook turned back to Fossen, who wore a smug grin.

“No. Only a doorway.”

“A doorway to what?” Rook asked. “To where?” He struggled covertly against the plastic zip ties binding his wrists to the chair behind him. He didn’t think he would be able to break them, but he would try until he had no breath left.

“Another world.” Fossen nodded to the creature still crouching in the corner of the room. “The dire wolves are not a native species. Surely, you can see that, Stanislav.”

The man fell silent. Rook let the man do so for a while. He needed to get free from the damn chair. But then his curiosity got the better of him.

“But why, Fossen? Why open a ‘doorway’ to bring the dire wolves here? What does that get you? Is it connected to your work on the local wolf population? I don’t get it.”

The man didn’t reply.

Rook looked out the window to the glowing sphere in the next room and saw some of the puppet-like lab coats walking around the room, checking on the machinery.

“Why aren’t you being controlled like the others, Fossen? Or are you the one doing the controlling?”

The man leaned back in his office chair and it gave a groan from his weight. Rook looked at the man, and he appeared to be a part of the chair, as if it and he were old friends. He smiled. “The pheromones passing through the doorway help free the will of those who resist the will of my Lord.”

My Lord? Rook thought. Shit on a stick. Religious nutjobs were always harder to handle because they were so unpredictable.

“I’ve heard it feels quite wonderful,” Fossen added. “And they’re happy to do whatever I, or my Lord, ask of them.

“I noticed that when half the town tried to kill me.”

He shrugged. “I asked you to leave more than once.”

“So why aren’t you all happy-tappy?”

“There are some of us here, those whose goals are aligned with the Lord’s, who remain unaffected. Sharp minds are required for an undertaking such as this. The pheromones only affect those who feel any degree of fear. We tested the compounds years ago, you see. But for Edmund Kiss, and your friend Peder—oh yes, he was a part of our group—we didn’t need to be controlled. We wanted to open the doorway. We wanted to see what was on the other side. And what we found? Glorious.

“As I said before, I didn’t lie to you. I just didn’t tell you everything. During World War II, the Deutsches Ahnenerbe was set up as a group with the sole purpose of investigating potential supernatural weapons. Hitler, as you probably know, was convinced that he would find some dark art or powered talisman that would help him win the war.”

“And the Ahnenerbe was willing to serve, right? Just doing their jobs like the jack-booted thugs at Auschwitz?” Rook looked dis-gusted.

Fossen surprised Rook by barking with laughter.

“No. Not at all. Hitler was a fool. He was good at getting people riled up, and he played that ‘master race’ card very well in public, but that wasn’t his true goal. He had a limited scope of vision. The man only wanted power and more power. Once removed from the main theater of war, the small group here abandoned the Third Reich and its bigoted agenda. They even abandoned the name Ahnenerbe. Now we simply call ourselves ‘The Group.’ Kiss and Peder and the others were interested in other worlds and supernatural creatures the likes of which Hitler could not have imagined. They remained here in Fenris Kystby, dedicated to one sole ideal. Over time, some, like Kiss, gained their own ideas about how things should be done and went their own way. Others, like Peder, dropped out shortly after the war. He never had the stomach for what we were doing, but he knew to keep his nose out of our business. I was born in the ’60s, when the project was well under way and the war was long over.”

Fossen stood and walked to the window, his back to where Rook sat tied to his chair. “You see, we kept people out of Fenris Kystby. No one knew what we were doing all these years. I did try to convince you to leave this town. We discovered the doorway and we figured out how the pheromones work. We even genetically tried to replicate the dire wolves, but all our attempts have been failures. We can’t get any subjects to survive infancy. Even tried crossing their DNA with our local wolves. I keep trying, but it’s more out of habit at this point, if I’m honest. Ultimately, we realized our true goal should be stabilizing and amplifying the doorway. It’s a naturally occurring phenomenon, like a small hangnail between dimensions. What you see out there is about twenty years’ worth of work to help that phenomenon become a permanent opening between worlds.”

Rook was sure one of the two zip ties was loosening as he flexed his thick wrists and pulled apart with his upper arms. It just wasn’t happening fast enough.

“So this is all about opening a portal for the dire wolves to come through? Why? Are they the mystery Lord you keep talking about?” He had to keep stalling the man, if he could.

Fossen leveled a serious glare at Rook.

Rook tried not to look away. He’d broken rule number one for dealing with religious kooks: don’t insult their God.

“No, Stanislav, I wanted to go there. To live in Asgard and sit at the right hand of Lord Fenrir’s throne.”

Fenrir, Rook thought. Fossen’s God had a name.

“I’m all that’s left of the true believers. The others out there are all dominated by the pheromones or by Fenrir’s will directly as She speaks to them. I see the look on your face, my friend. But I’ve already been though the doorway to the other side. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. It is a stark place, but it is filled with bliss beyond comprehension.”

Rook thought it sounded like Fossen got a dose of Fenrir’s happy gas, too. Maybe not enough to make him loopy, but enough to make him see God, and want more.

Rook pulled hard at his restraints, but then stretched his neck, as if he were merely uncomfortable in the chair. He didn’t want Fossen to stop talking and start realizing his captive was nearly free.

“Have you ever wondered if Fenrir just wants to come here?”

Fossen smiled a strange distant smile, like he was remembering something amazing in his mind’s eye. “Oh, she wants to come here very badly. That’s why she needs me. To loosen the leash that keeps her from fully entering our world. She has been here before, several times over the ages. We’ve just mistaken the evidence of her passage.”

Fossen had actually piqued Rook’s interest. “How?”

“Impact craters,” Fossen said. “Some really are impact craters, to be sure, but many are simply the footprints of my Lord entering our reality, taking what she pleases, and returning to her world until the season returns.”

“Season?”

“The opening between our worlds occurs naturally, but the duration and scope cannot be predicted. Until now. Historically, many of the seasons with larger openings and longer durations coincide with mass extinctions.”

“Hold on,” Rook said with a laugh he couldn’t hold back. “You’re telling me these assholes are what killed the dinosaurs?”

Fossen shook his head. “They merely contributed to it.”

“Then why in the name of Ronald Reagan’s undescended right testicle would you help with something like that?” Rook’s patience ran out. “Oh right, Lord Fruitloop.”

Fossen seemed to absorb the comment with just a moment’s discomfort. “Because, with my help, the portal will remain open indefinitely. Our worlds will become one, and everyone will serve the Lord Fenrir.”

“Right, with you at her right hand.” Rook hadn’t missed that Fossen’s God was feminine.

“As promised.”

Rook was almost free of the plastic cuffs. “Listen buttercup, if there is one thing I’ve learned about megalomaniacs—human or otherwise—it’s that they’ll say, do and promise just about anything to achieve their goals. You’re being duped.”

“If you would only open your eyes and see—”

“You know they make big comic book conventions for people like you, right?” Rook said. “You’d fit right in. Pop on a pair of rubber Vulcan ears and you’d be all set. Maybe hook up with a Ferengi. I think they’re ugly as shit, but you seem to have low standards.”

Fossen grinned and shook his head. “Oh, Stanislav. I will miss your sense of humor.” The door to the room opened and Asya walked in calmly, holding another Walther pistol in her hand, trained on Rook.

Rook’s momentum toward his escape was derailed the moment he saw Asya. At first, he thought she was in on it with Fossen, but then he saw the wooden way she walked and the glazed look in her eyes.

Fossen went back to his laptop. “Take him.”

Asya stepped behind Rook and cut the plastic zip tie with a small knife she produced with her free hand. She shoved him hard in the spine with the gun and said simply “Go.”

He left the room and entered the main chamber with the glowing sphere—a doorway, he thought—and Asya motioned him toward a tunnel on the left. He hoped for a second that this was all some ploy on her part to rescue him. Maybe she was just pretending to be under the spell of the pheromones. As they left the light from the main chamber and pressed on into the darkness of the tunnel, he tried whispering to her, but she made no response other than to poke him repeatedly in the spine with the Walther.

He planned to attack her on the next poke, but she spoke to him instead.

“Stop here.” Her speech was labored. Like she was trying to force her speech past her lips. “Hold…out your hand.”

He raised his hand in the darkness. She placed something small and plastic into his hand. He closed his fingers around it. “Hold on to it…and do not…drop it.”

“Why? What is it—?”

Before he could finish he felt a powerful kick in his lower back. To deliver that much force, she must have taken a step back and lunged at him with a flying sidekick. His body sprawled forward but there was nowhere to land. He fell in darkness until he hit something bouncy like a rubber ball, but with little pinpricks all over it. Then he heard something shriek in the darkness.

FORTY-SEVEN

Exxon Building, New York, NY

KING AND DEEP Blue burst out of the access door and onto the white-gray roof. Deep Blue had used his last MP5 round to blow out the lock on the heavy fire door.

King pulled a KA-BAR knife from a tactical nylon sheath on the side of his armor and let Deep Blue move to the lead. To the right was a large ten-foot tall wall of air conditioning fans. The older man ran left along the open rooftop, back toward the 6th Ave. side of the building. King followed, turning with every few strides to see if the dire wolves chasing them had reached the roof access yet.

“Keasling says the dire wolves below the portal are retreating like army ants on the run,” Deep Blue called over his shoulder as he ran.

They were nearing the eastern portion of the raised level on the roof that held the top of the stairwell they had just existed, and the elevator shafts that ran down the central spine of the building. King looked back one last time before rounding the corner and saw two dire wolves explode out of the top of the stairwell, cornering like cartoon characters with legs pistoning in a blur of motion, but the body not yet responding.

“Not all of them are retreating!” King moved around the concrete corner of the building’s uppermost reaches, and slammed his body against the wall, laying flat against it. Deep Blue didn’t know he had stopped and was waiting with the knife poised to strike. He could hear Deep Blue contacting the helicopter pilot through the external speaker in the high tech helmet.

“The dire wolves are bugging out. We’re gonna need a rooftop pick up on West 50th.”

King turned his attention completely to the concrete corner, tensing with the knife and bending at the knees, intending to spring up and add more thrust to the blow.

When the dire wolves came, they came fast. Too fast. The first dire wolf blitzed past the corner and a further thirty feet beyond, before adjusting its course. King was astonished—and a little disappointed—that the creature hadn’t overshot the corner of the raised structure by another twenty feet, which would have taken it sailing clear off the edge of the roof and down to 6th Ave. Anticipating the arrival of the second beast, King lunged around the corner, with the knife leading, even before he caught sight of it. If he had waited, it too would have passed by.

As it was, he was about a yard ahead of it when he jumped out, but it was coming at ridiculous velocity and clearly wasn’t expecting any kind of resistance. The blade of the knife drove into the creature’s throat with force. The knife tore more than punctured, and the blade along with half the hilt and King’s hand, drove into the monster’s neck and head. He’d been aiming upward, and the blade quickly found its way to the center of the beast’s skull.

The dead creature, carried by momentum, tackled King to the roof.

They tumbled together, a mass of black and white bodies and limbs.

The world spun around King. He had no sense of where he was, only that he was rolling, far, with no way to stop.

While King careened across the roof, another three dire wolves emerged from the stairwell and headed for Deep Blue.

King withdrew his knife from the monster’s eye with a wet squelch. The motion flipped him free and he struck the concrete roof on his stomach, sliding on his body armor. The edge of the roof over 6th was fast approaching. Slapping his hands down on the roof, King threw his body weight laterally, away from the dire wolf.

The dead dire wolf reached the end of the concrete roof and bumped up and over the six-inch high decorative wall before dropping down to the street. King scraped his knife blade across the concrete roof and spun his body just in time to plant his feet against the low wall and stop his slide toward doom.

One of the three dire wolves chasing Deep Blue let loose with the bone-shaking roar, and King once again discovered he possessed some kind of immunity to the auditory attack. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

Deep Blue and the first dire wolf caromed across the roof, the dire wolf clawing at the man. Deep Blue stabbed back with a bayonet. The roof shook beneath them, knocking everyone down. They rolled and tumbled across the concrete as King struggled to give chase on the suddenly uneven surface of the roof.

“King! The roof is collapsing! Get over here!” King raced across the roof and noted the other two dire wolves bounding toward him in his periphery.

Deep Blue slashed at the dire wolf attacking him. It flailed and struggled.

King leapt atop the dire wolf and pinned the creature’s head down on the ground. Deep Blue sank the bayonet onto the creature’s eye.

“Go! Go!” Deep Blue struggled to his feet and lurched.

King nearly fell as the roof shifted beneath him again.

Oh my God. It’s the whole building!

Deep Blue ran for the edge of the building over West 50th Street. “The portals are gone! The building is collapsing! Black Three, deploy! I repeat, deploy! And get the fuck out of our way—” The man reached the end of the building and showed no signs of slowing down. King raced after his friend, mentor and the former President of the United States of America, as the man leapt right off the roof of a 52-story-tall Manhattan skyscraper.

The dire wolves were right behind King as he reached the end of the building and without a second thought, leapt off the building and into the air, 750 feet over the city street, as the skyscraper slid backward and away from his jump. The distance his leap took him out and away from the edge of the building appeared to be superhuman, but the building was collapsing—tumbling away beneath him, dumping tons of glass, steel and concrete on West 49th and the troops waiting down below.

As he fell toward the asphalt far below him, King had time to note two things that were more terrible than falling to his death for over 700 feet.

The first was that about half way down the plunge, a black Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter was hovering above the street, directly under Deep Blue and King, its rotor blades waiting to grind them like two scoops of ice cream in a blender.

The second thing was worse. The two dire wolves had followed him off the roof. They fell just above him, claws extended and reaching for his exposed face.

FORTY-EIGHT

Somewhere

BISHOP STRUGGLED TO comprehend what he was seeing. Everything around him appeared to be a salmon shade of orangey pink. The sky was so pallid it made him nauseous to look at it. The ground was covered in chunks and oblong protruding mounds of rocky grit. As far as he could see, the landscape was uniform. Lumps and bumps, but no mountains and no trees. No water and nothing moving.

He was on his hands and knees, disgorging the contents of his stomach onto the peculiar pasty colored soil, when he heard movement behind him. He still had two MP5s strapped to his body, but he couldn’t access them quickly from his position on the ground.

He scooped up a handful of the strange grit on the ground in his left hand, as if he was struggling to stay on his hand and knees. The truth was that after vomiting, his body felt far better adjusted to the strange sights. He was almost back to normal. He just hadn’t gotten up yet. He pulled a knee up, as if in agony, but actually hoped to spring up to his feet. Then he slowly dragged his right hand under his body, as if he was holding his stomach in agony. Instead, he pulled the handle of his SOG SEAL knife from its sheath on his massive armored chest. He had formerly relied on a KA-BAR, like the rest of the team, but since Deep Blue had formed Endgame and taken over the old Manifold base as a headquarters in New Hampshire, Bishop had started field-testing lots of different equipment for fun. Deep Blue obtained what he felt was the best of the best for the team, and the base had racks of armaments from which to choose. Bishop had found the 12-inch knife with the 7-inch blade and instantly fell in love. On a smaller man, the size of the knife might have made it unwieldy. But Bishop was a mountain of a man.

The noise scuffed again, just behind him.

Bishop sprang up, whirling in a 180 degree circle. It wouldn’t be the first time he shocked an opponent with how quickly a man of his size could move.

His hand came whistling around, spraying the soil at the eyes of the dire wolf, which stood just taller than Bishop did. His second hand followed through on the spin and sliced out with the SOG blade. The edge raked across the beast’s chest, and the creature let loose with its natural defense mechanism—the devastating aural attack that made the thick bones in Bishop’s body vibrate as if they were about to explode.

Under normal circumstances, the roar would paralyze an opponent. Fear would course through their bodies at the fight-or-flight reflex the roar triggers. But Bishop had just the one major fear. It dwarfed everything else and was a fear he lived with every day. When Chess Team had first gone up against Richard Ridley’s Manifold Genetics company, they had captured Bishop and experimented on him at the genetic level. Bishop had been transformed into a ‘Regen.’ He had developed amazing regenerative abilities, healing from minor wounds in seconds and could even grow back severed limbs like a salamander. But those amazing abilities had come with a heavy price. Each time his body regenerated, his mind lost a shred of his humanity until he became nothing more than a raging monster. He had battled the condition with meditation and eventually with a crystal from the Neanderthal city of Meru in Vietnam, which had negated the rage effects he felt with a combination of vibrations and ionization. He didn’t buy into things like crystals and UFOs, but the one from Meru worked, and that had been clear to everyone.

Ultimately, his genetic structure had been fixed, removing the regenerative abilities, and with them the likelihood that he would transform into a raving maniac again. But the fear never left him. The nightmares came nearly every night. He put on a good façade for the team, but inside he lived with the constant worry that he would one day lose control and start killing every living person around him. He lived with the fear that he would eat their bloodied corpses like a deranged African lion, pulling and tearing at the flesh in long strips and unrecognizable chunks.

The dire wolf in front of him wasn’t finished howling when the fight-or-flight reflex in Bishop manifested. But for Bishop with his fear of losing all control, the reflex simply made him hallucinate that he had. He lunged forward before the dire wolf had closed its mouth and before it could move. Bishop grabbed the beast around the back of its head and sank his teeth into the creature’s throat, ripping and tearing at the white translucent skin. Fluid filled Bishop’s mouth as he continued to bite and tear at tendons pulled as tight as piano wires. His powerful meaty hands clutched the back of the dire wolf’s head, so it couldn’t escape.

The creature backpedaled, and fell over in shock, dead before it could hit the rocky salmon soil. Bishop rode the falling creature to the ground, but even the impact couldn’t dislodge him.

He didn’t stop eating for a long time.

FORTY-NINE

Outside, Fenris Kystby, Norway

3 November, 2330 Hrs

QUEEN MOVED AWAY from the trap door, back in the direction she had traveled underground in the tunnels and the labs. The snow drifted to above her knee in places. She found it hard to believe this much snow had fallen in just a few hours. The landscape was completely different from how it had been when Rook led her and Asya down to the secret hatch.

She moved steadily through the snow, heading toward what she expected would be a much more obvious entrance back into the facility. The room with the giant metal cage had huge hangar-style doors. She knew they must open to the outdoors somewhere. The land was hilly with small rises and valleys, but she moved at a rapid pace, despite the snow. She kept looking back, waiting for the white-skinned creatures to appear. They would blend perfectly into the snowy landscape—natural camouflage. But she knew they couldn’t see properly with any kind of obstacles in the air. The sleet would play havoc with their perceptions. They might even still be back at the hatch.

She couldn’t waste time. She needed to get closer to the hangar doors—wherever they were—and then find a place to make a stand. If the snow and sleet stopped, those things would be after her.

Queen crested a small rise, and ahead she could see a rectangular hill in the snow, which looked to be about four or five feet taller than the rest of the hill. Like a bunker, she thought.

She moved toward the shape, at times in snow almost up to her hips. As she got closer, she could see that her original thought about a bunker wasn’t far off. The structure was a gray concrete, although it was difficult to see it clearly, as she approached it. Snow coated its flat roof. Small ice crystals clung to the vertical sides of the building. Its most notable feature from a distance was the small window set into the side of one wall. Light poured out of the tiny window like blasting rays of the sun.

When she reached the wall, she could see decorative swastikas carved into the cement. The bunker had the look of a WWII-era German structure. Each symbol was perfectly centered above a feature of the building—one above the small window, which was too small to climb through and not much larger than her face, and the other above a long-since-rusted metal door. The symbols had faded with time and weather, and upon closer inspection, it looked like someone had made a concerted effort to chip them away. The small bunker-like building sat atop a hill, exposing Queen to harsh winds. The top of the building’s roof, just a few feet above the snow, was mostly clear of piled snow, blown away by the wind.

She inched close to the window, but couldn’t make out anything more than the blisteringly bright light that streamed out, making the rest of the un-illuminated area around the bunker darker by comparison. She swept away the snow covering the door and discovered it was covered by earth as well. The upper hinge was on the outside of the door. There would be no way to get the thing open. It reminded her of the double doors in one of the abandoned labs that Rook had shown her. That room had a small window that was covered over almost entirely by soil and snow, too. She hadn’t seen that window on her way to this hill. She assumed it would be completely covered by snow now.

The snow was letting up. Her hand began to throb and swell. Her gloves were long gone, so she reached into a pocket of her jacket and pulled out the fleece headband she had worn earlier to hide her brand. Her ears were cold too, but they would have to wait. She needed her hand. She used her teeth and ripped the fleece along its seam, and then wrapped her broken hand with it, using it like a bandage.

With the additional warmth and support from the fleece, she then wrapped the wire around her hand again, to use it as a garrote, when the time came. Then she looked again at the way the window cast light onto the snow and had an idea. She moved to the side of the window and began to scoop snow away from the bottom of the huge drift against the side wall. Soon she had to get on her hands and knees to move the snow out of the makeshift cave she was creating. The hole would be just large enough for her to squat in, and the top would come just a few inches under the top of the snow drift. The snow packed nicely, and she could tell that the roof wouldn’t collapse in—at least not until she needed it to. Once she could fit inside the small shelter, she started scooping more snow, but this pile she placed at the entrance, sealing herself in. By the time she was nearly done, Queen was soaked with sweat. She hoped the white beasts didn’t have a good enough sense of smell that they could detect her even through the natural sensory countermeasure provided by the falling snow.

She left a small window at the top of her doorway, about three inches in height—just enough for her to see out and into the field of light the window of the building provided. She could see that the sleet had lessened and turned into a light gentle flow of large, two-inch snowflakes. She had never seen such large flakes—not even in the Arctic islands of Russia, several degrees north of where she was now in Fenris Kystby. The flakes fell, but they lessened in intensity. The beasts would be coming soon. She would have to work quickly. This last part was delicate. She used the end of her electrical wire to gently prod holes in the ceiling of her snow cell. One wouldn’t be enough. She made a dozen holes, enough to see the roofline above her drift.

The bunker was a natural rise. The roof would provide a natural vantage point. She suspected that at least one of the creatures would utilize both it and the light the window cast onto the snowy valley below the bunker. She saw movement through her roof holes, as one of the monsters moved past her line of sight to crouch on the edge of the roof and scan the valley below with its bizarre head cocked askew and the large reptilian eye rotating on the side of its head.

She could also see movement outside her door. At least two of them. A gust of wind howled across the hill, bringing a curtain of white sweeping along the ground with it, like nature’s broom, sweeping things clean.

The movement outside the door ceased. Queen checked through the peepholes in her roof. The squatting creature above her remained locked in place, its powerful chest and arms per-fectly still. They wouldn’t move until the gust of wind stopped blowing snow around.

Now.

Queen tensed on her bent legs and thrust up through the roof of her snow cave, launching her body onto the concrete roof of the bunker and rolling in one swift move. The big white monster turned its head, but it was too late. Queen leapt onto its back and threw her cord over its head, pulling tightly with both hands and leaning back like she was riding a mechanical bull at a Texas dive bar.

The beast stood and wobbled backward as it clutched at its throat and the thick insulated cord that was cutting off its air flow.

Needing to breathe is a bitch, ain’t it? she thought, and held on harder as the twitching, bucking creature began to flail uncontrollably around the roof of the small 10 foot square bunker.

There were two more creatures in the dooryard of the building, illuminated brightly by the window, but snow still fell, obscuring their sense of the world.

Queen pulled her knees up and rammed them against the monster’s spine, using her powerful leg muscles to add thrust to the pull of the wire across the throat.

The creature was out of air and out of time. It staggered closer to the front of the building, and tipped over the lip, head first, with Queen riding its back like a trick equestrian. They dropped toward one of the stationary beasts and at the last second, Queen abandoned her cord and leapt off the falling creature’s back. As it hit the snow, she struck the head of a second beast, digging her thumb straight into its large tennis-ball like eye. The sound it made was horrendous. Not the roar that had incapacitated her earlier, with fear and trauma hallucinations, but a screeching wail of pain and dismay. She wrapped her broken hand around the other side of the thing’s head as a white jelly-like substance juiced over the thumb of her attacking hand. This beast was going down too, and she rode it into the snow, then rolled.

As soon as she landed in the drift, she moved her head up to check on the location of the third white creature, and then she froze in place. A few feet away, it twisted its head, swiveling its eyes in alternating directions, trying to make sense of the white noise wreaking havoc with its strange senses.

She stood slowly.

Confidently.

Then the last beast let loose its dreadful roar. She was expecting it this time; she knew that one or all of them would try to use the roar. She didn’t know how it worked, but she knew it had been responsible for her flashbacks and hallucinations last time.

Even expecting it this time, it brought her down, trembling in fear. Tears filled her eyes.

Her body shook more violently from the fear than from the cold, but the hallucinations did not attack her mind.

She knew where she was and what was going on around her, but she was scared shitless.

Drawn to her emotional fallout, as though it could smell her fear, the beast swiveled its eyes in her direction. It opened its maw slowly, showing a mouthful of jagged pointy teeth, all sharp and long in the front. Her fear spiked again and she shrieked.

The beast stalked toward her.

The snow stopped.

She watched in horror as the last flakes floated to the ground.

The creature opened its mouth wide enough to engulf her head. The muscles beneath its clear cheeks coiled. The jaws looked powerful enough to pulverize her skull.

The only response she could manage was a scream, but it wasn’t simply a primal fear response. It was a name. And it lent her strength. “Rook!”

FIFTY

Midtown, New York, NY

“BLACK THREE!” DEEP Blue was shouting into his headset to the helicopter pilot. “The building’s coming down. So are we! Move before you slice us to ribbons!”

King flipped over face first to spread his arms and legs in a classic skydiving stance, as he and Deep Blue fell from the roof of the collapsing Exxon Building. Thankfully, the building tipped away from them, not quite yet to a forty-five degree angle. He watched the helicopter peeling away toward the Time-Life Building fire two rockets at the lower portion of the Exxon Building below him. The rockets sank into the concrete of the building a few hundred feet below him. Stretched out between the underside of the Black Hawk and the impact sites of the two rockets was a black net, reminding King of the nets he had seen at the circus when he was a kid. Only this time, one side of the net was held up by a helicopter, and he was the one falling into it—from the roof of a skyscraper. Also, he had two otherworldly vicious brutes about to fall on top of him and rake his eyes out.

The air squealed with the rending of concrete and steel as the upper twenty floors of the Exxon Building fell over. When it reached a forty-five degree angle, the center of the building sheared, and tore from the hollow space created by its central elevator shafts. Some of the building ripped away and dropped above the heads of the falling dire wolves.

The helicopter dipped, allowing some slack in the net. King heard the distinctive sound of repetitive gunfire. Black Four, the co-pilot, was firing a side-mounted machine gun at the dire wolves above King.

Deep Blue slammed into the net a second before King did. Both men quickly grabbed onto the netting, which was a thin, nylon and elastic substance coated in black threads. The net bounced under the weight of the bodies, but almost as soon as King hit the net, the helicopter rose up and pulled the net taught at a sharp angle, leading up and away from the crumbling Exxon Building.

Then the first pursuing dire wolf, now dead from withering gunfire, smashed into the net and rolled down toward the side of the building, where the net’s rocket-fired mounts had attached. The second dire wolf had been hit, but was still alive and managed to snag the net with a clawed hand.

A ten-story slab of concrete came down next. Completed in 1971, the Exxon Building was the second-tallest building in the Rockefeller Center Plaza, and was also one of the 100 tallest buildings in America, but today it would become another casualty in the war on terror—against both human and otherworldly threats.

The giant slab of falling steel, concrete and glass was almost to the net when the lower portion of the building began its collapse.

“We’re on!” Deep Blue was shouting. “Detach, detach!”

King clung to the netting as the last living dire wolf climbed toward him. Small explosive charges on the net’s mounts detonated in clouds of smoke. The bottom of the net swung away from the Exxon Building with King, Deep Blue and the dire wolf all clinging to it. The dead dire wolf tumbled away as the net swung across West 50th Street, still some twenty stories in the air. It slammed them into the side of the Time-Life Building, high above its distinctive wavy cement walkway, shattering windows.

King lost a handhold in the impact and dropped a foot lower toward the dire wolf, but his other arm tangled firmly in the netting. The dire wolf was unfazed by the impact, but it stopped moving and held on as the net swung.

The Black Hawk dropped fast and banked hard. The massive chunk of rubble whooshed past, missing the chopper, but snagging the end of the net, which snapped taut. One of the net’s two moorings on the underside of the Black Hawk came loose, sending the net twisting and spinning in the air.

Then the rest of the gigantic piece of building was past them, crashing into the pavement below and sending up a choking plume of dust. The helicopter raced along West 50th, until it was clear of the dust storm.

King looked down. The dire wolf was climbing again. He grabbed onto the net with his other hand and untangled his left. Then he climbed down to meet the dire wolf climbing up. He kicked down with his armor-plated boot, catching the beast in its snout. The thing recoiled and tried to bite King’s foot, then swept a clawed hand up at his leg. King pulled back just in time. He knew the armor would provide some level of protection, but he didn’t know how deep those claws could cut.

The lash ripped a few of the threads of the net, but not enough to pose a problem. He looked up and saw Deep Blue climbing the net toward a small, open access hatch in the bottom of the helicopter.

The Black Hawk reached 7th Avenue and turned a sharp right toward the park, the net swinging away from the banking turn. The lower portion of the net swung out and slammed into a huge billboard on 7th advertising an upcoming Peter Jackson film. The dire wolf dented the board, but didn’t relinquish its grip. King was high enough on the net that only his foot hit the billboard, and he barely felt it through the armored boot.

King climbed while the dire wolf was recovering. When he reached the underside of the Black Hawk, Black Four extended a rope ladder that ran just a few feet out of the hatch. Once King was on the ladder, and off the net, he raised a thumb up to the man. The helicopter swept over Central Park and Black Four disappeared inside the cabin of the helicopter.

High over the park’s lake, the last coupling for the net detached, dropping the net, and the dire wolf, to the water eighty feet below them.

King scrambled up into the moving vehicle just before the helicopter banked hard and circled the lake. King stood just in time to see Black Four manning the port side machine gun again.

The helicopter rolled right and Black Four loosed a barrage into the lake. King looked out the window, watching the dire wolf spasm as .50 caliber rounds tore into its chest. The pilot circled again before turning north and speeding away from the city.

King turned to Deep Blue and then slid down the side wall of the Black Hawk into a troop-carrying canvas seat. He pulled on a seat belt as Deep Blue did the same. Black Four moved up to the cockpit, climbed over the central console and took his seat next to the pilot.

Deep Blue removed his battered high-tech helmet. His face was drawn and pale. He looked battered, exhausted and much, much older than he was.

Something happened. Something bad.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Bishop and Knight. They’re down.”

FIFTY-ONE

Somewhere

HOURS AFTER HIS meal, Bishop was back to his senses and walking along the edge of a cliff. The hallucination of killing and eating a dire wolf was hideous and nasty, but that was all it was. The fear and uncontrollable rage had left him, and then, when he came to his senses, he was walking. Bishop walked for hours until he came to the edge of a rocky waterfall without the water, a cliff that ran to both sides of the orange horizon, and dropped hundreds of feet down.

Far off to the right, the land rose along the cliff’s edge to what looked like a natural rock tower. To his left, the plain stretched out for miles. At the bottom of the cliff, the land went flat again, sweeping out as far as he could see, but the ground wasn’t featureless, it was pocked with what looked like impact craters. Thousands of them. All different sizes.

He looked behind him, searching for craters. He couldn’t see any, but the land was so flat and devoid of features that he could be within a mile of one and never know it was there.

He peered over the edge of the cliff again. A flicker of movement caught his attention—a small moving spot near the base of the cliff. Something living. It climbed up the cliff close to where Bishop stood.

Bishop considered his options. Climb down, walk forever to the left, walk forever backward, or walk forever to the right, toward the pinnacle of rock on the horizon. Maybe get a better vantage point. Maybe see another portal somewhere.

The final option was to wait for the climbing thing and see if it could reach the top of the cliff. The ground along the edge was scattered with large rocks and even a few boulders. Bishop had no doubt that he could nudge one of the rocks over, crushing and killing whatever was climbing the cliff face if it presented any danger. He was also sure it wasn’t a dire wolf. It wasn’t white, but rather was a grayish pink. Like it was coated in the salmon dust of this place.

Bishop peeked over the edge again, to look at the thing. He couldn’t see it clearly enough yet to figure out what it might be. It just looked like a speck. He walked a few yards to the right until he was directly above it, then found a good-sized boulder nearby and sat down on it. He let his gaze sweep the distant plains and the craters below the cliff.

A portal appeared, far away on the horizon. The thing looked no bigger than a marble but cast its bright light far across the orange plain. He didn’t think it was dark out there until he saw the portal appear, then, with its new brilliance added to the scene, he realized how dim things had been.

Several streaks of dust appeared from far off on the right, blazing direct paths toward the portal. Dire wolves. He considered making for the portal himself, but it was far. It would take him hours—maybe even days—to climb down the cliff and run across the plain. He leaned over the edge of the drop to check on the climbing thing. It was moving, but too far down to tell what it was or guess at its size. Bishop looked at his watch and then looked back to the portal on the pink-hued orange horizon. Suddenly the streaks in the soil from the dust clouds left in the wake of the dire wolves reappeared. This time they moved from the portal back toward the far right of his view until they disappeared. Then the portal winked out. Bishop looked at his watch. Four minutes had elapsed.

Weird. The portals were staying open for much longer back home.

Then he noticed the spot where the portal had been. A crater was left in its wake. He thought about what he had seen and what it meant. Breathing slowly, he allowed himself to fall into a meditative state. When he came out of it, he looked down the cliff again to check on the progress of the climber.

He moved back to his boulder and smiled. He knew several things now. Wherever the dire wolves were coming from, it was to his right, along the cliff’s edge up toward the pinnacle or tower of rock. He didn’t know if it was a natural formation or not. He looked at the rise again and concentrated on its shape. It didn’t matter. If it was a natural formation, he’d have a better view from the top of it and could more easily spot the enemy. High ground was rarely a bad thing. If it wasn’t a natural formation, then he would have found the enemy. Either way, the solitary tower was his next destination.

He also knew why there were craters here. They were the aftermath of portals having opened and closed. The plains were covered with craters, no two overlapping, with tracks of flat land between them wide enough for a racing horde of dire wolves. Very few free spaces remained. That’s how he would get home. Find the dire wolf source, do what he could to stop them, and then try to anticipate the next portal’s appearance by going to a spot on the plains with no craters. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all he had, and it felt good to have that at least.

Finally, he knew what the climbing thing was, and he settled back on his boulder to wait for it. He checked his watch. Another ten minutes passed, when he saw movement at the edge of the lip of the cliff. The thing struggled up over the ledge and rolled onto the ground at the top, just a yard away from where Bishop sat cross-legged on top of his smooth orange boulder.

The thing was humanoid, with thick boots caked in the salmon grime of this place’s ground. Dust also coated its body, and Bishop could see it didn’t wear much in the way of clothing. The hair on the head was long—well past the shoulders, tangled and matted, not too different from a jungle boy in a Tarzan film. It lay on its back, breathing hard from the exertion of its climb.

“It’s about fuckin’ time, Knight.” Bishop said with a grin.

The feral thing rolled to a crouch and looked up at Bishop through the filthy hair. “Bishop? How did you find me? How long have I been here?”

“By my watch, we’ve been here for around eleven hours, but by the looks of you, you’ve been here a lot longer. You okay?”

Knight stood slowly and Bishop took in the sight of him. The man was wearing shorts—the BDU pants he had worn under his armor, but the legs had been cut off. No shirt, and the rest of the armor was gone. Aside from being filthy and coated in grime, the thing that struck Bishop the most was that while Knight had been a wiry fellow before, he was now much better built. His muscles bulged as if he spent a lot of time pumping iron at the gym. And Knight’s hair was longer than it had been earlier that day—about two years of unchecked growth longer. Knight’s hair came down below his armpits.

The two men appraised each other.

“I’m okay. I just didn’t think I’d be seeing you. Or anyone. I think I’ve only slept two times, so I should have only been here for a couple of days.” Knight sounded clear-headed, but he wasn’t making much sense.

“Shin, your hair is down below you armpits and you look like Mowgli the Korean Jungle Man. Your clothes are rags. You must have been here longer than that. Time is funny on this side. I’ve already figured that out.”

“Huh,” Knight grunted. “My watch broke. It only felt like a few nights. Hard to tell day from night, if this place even has one, what with everything being blue.”

Bishop looked around the landscape at the pink and orange hues, then back to Knight. “Remember what Black Five said about other dimensions not following the same laws of physics? I think maybe our brains are having a hard time comprehending things here. Because I’m looking at everything around us—the sky, the ground, even you—and all I see are shades of orange.”

“Orange?” Knight looked around him, then back at Bishop. “I see midnight blue.”

Bishop was about to offer a theory on why they perceived different colors when he noticed something on Knight’s back. A backpack. A very full backpack. He hadn’t noticed it before because Knight’s long hair covered the straps over his shoulders.

He pointed to the pack. “What’s this?”

Knight grinned. “You know I hate failing missions.”

FIFTY-TWO

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

3 November, 2330 Hrs

EIREK FOSSEN WALKED into to the main lab, looking up at the ball of light that filled him with a sense of awe and power. The portal glowed brightly, larger now, but still not its full size. A few dire wolves moved slowly around the room, sniffing at the air. The Russian woman, Asya, stood quietly by the portal, smiling in the Lord’s bliss.

He had told the other staff members to retire to their quarters. The pheromones made them highly suggestible. By the time its influence began to wear off and they ventured back into the lab, it would be too late.

He stared up at the glowing portal, feeling the warmth of it washing over his face. It was beautiful. Up close, the brilliance of the light was painful to his eyes; his eyelids kept trying to shut, but he willed them open until tears flowed from his face. Every time he looked at it, he remembered his one and only trip through to the other side. The colors. The landscape. The dire wolves. And Fenrir. He hadn’t spoken to the Lord in two days. He ached to hear from Her again. Or was she a him? He honestly didn’t know, but preferred to think of Her as being female. Men just weren’t that beautiful.

He didn’t really have anything to report. The portal wouldn’t grow to sufficient size for hours yet, but he couldn’t wait to hear from Her again.

He knelt on the floor and bowed his head.

One of the dire wolves came over to him and sniffed the air around him, cocking its head left and right, its huge eyes dilating from the brilliance of the portal. Then it stepped up to the wall of the energy sphere and through it.

Fossen remained kneeling on the concrete floor. His knees and shins protested, but he refused to move. Minutes passed and he stayed still, allowing his thoughts to empty, until he focused only on his breathing.

Then it came, as he knew it would. The hairs on the back of his neck raised and the skin on his arms tightened with gooseflesh.

The voice.

Her voice.

Is it ready, Fossen?

The voice was just above a whisper, but it slid through his mind like a snake. Fossen knew the voice was only in his head, and that it came from the portal. But it sounded like she stood right next to him, uttering the words into his ear. He knew that wasn’t the case. If the weak-willed lab techs were in the room, they would hear nothing. But Fossen could hear Her in his mind. Only he and a select few others, like Schröder and Edmund Kiss, had been able to hear it, at first like a nagging thought in the dark recesses of the subconscious, and later something more. Fossen loved that voice with every part of his being.

“Soon, My Lord. Soon. The portal should be ready in several hours. It is still growing, but we have enough energy to open it to the full size and keep it open and stable. All our work is nearly complete.”

You will be rewarded.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Fossen hesitated. “We have had some problems, though. Three intruders.”

I am aware.

Of course She is, Fossen thought, but continued his report anyway, if only to extend the length of their conversation. “One is now contained and another is here with me, under Your influence.”

I feel her, he thought. A shiver run through his body. His mouth watered. He shared Her hunger.

And the third? The voice grew serious.

“The dire wolves are dealing with her outside. She poses little threat.”

I do not wish to have anything upset our plans, Fossen. I will send more of my children. They will find her.

Fossen nodded. Of course.

I will join you soon, Fossen. We will not be apart much longer.

Fossen raised his head to see dire wolves coming out of the portal. As they emerged, the first sniffed the air and looked at him. He pointed in the direction of the door leading to the outside of the facility. The dire wolf loped on all fours toward the door. And then they kept coming, following the first toward the door.

Fossen lost count after thirty arrived and more kept coming.

“Will you send all of them, my Lord?”

These are but a few grains of sand from the beach, Fossen.

FIFTY-THREE

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

ASYA FOUGHT THE wave of happiness overwhelming her. Being Russian, she wasn’t accustomed to such radiant joy. It fit her like a too-tight sweater, choking her at the neck and chafing in her armpits. She struggled to comprehend how she had become so delighted with life. When she focused on the issue, she could remember Rook, the pit with the dead things and marching Rook at gunpoint back to the pit filled with the little corpses. It was harder to remember how she had become so happy. When she thought about the round wall of light, she felt only warmth and contentment. And then she would forget—everything—and would have to start over, by focusing on Rook.

When thinking back to Rook, and how she met him, and how she had come to this place, it made her angry. The anger countered the bliss. That, and the anger and the frustration felt more natural for her. More Russian. So, she stopped trying to focus on Rook and instead turned her attention to the abduction of her parents.

The thought that someone would take her mother and father filled her with a deep rage. That the same people would abduct her and take her aboard a ship—the ship on which she had met Rook—bound for who knew where, filled her with a desire for vengeance.

Things had gone easily for Asya as a child. But as adulthood had neared, she was given two choices: ballet, for which she had a natural talent, or medicine. Both options would be well respected and would allow her to move from the middle class to the upper echelons of stardom, or at least cement her role in the new Russian middle class.

She had shocked her family by choosing the army instead.

Her athletic abilities helped her excel in combat training, but she was too defiant to rise in the ranks, and was already hindered by the fact that she was a woman. She wasn’t interested in rank, anyway. She just wanted a real experience in her life. She served her time in the infantry, and then when the chance came to leave the service, she did. She traveled around Russia and even went abroad a few times. She thought about settling down somewhere, but for now, she had been happy to keep on the move and see some sights. She was almost to that place she had been seeking—a place of inner contentment bred from pleasure with the decisions she had made instead of those decisions made for her. Then the men that Rook had killed captured her on the streets of Murmansk.

A life interrupted. Her life, interrupted.

The anger she felt filled her like an inflating blimp. She let it rise, pushing out any semblance of happiness. She could now picture the attack on Rook and the anger she’d felt toward the mob. She pictured the people and the injuries they had sustained. She understood now, after having been forced by her bliss to march Rook to the pit, that the others had been under the influence of the glowing wall of light as well.

She became furious.

An entire village of people. Controlled. Their lives stolen. Brutalized!

She let all of it feed her anger. As though a hypnotist had just snapped his fingers, her mind returned in a flash.

Asya Machtcenko opened her eyes and found she was sitting in a chair, in a dark room. It was a computer lab with several desk workstations and flat-screen monitors. All sensations of being controlled were gone. She recalled sending Rook to his doom in the pit. She also remembered handing him the LED and telling him not to drop it. She hoped he had listened to her.

And where is Queen? she wondered.

She got up and looked down at herself. At some point, she had put on a white lab coat. She grimaced. I am no man’s lackey. She was about to take it off, but changed her mind. It might help her move through the lab unnoticed. She needed to get to Rook and see if she could help him.

How long have I been under its control? How long have I been unaware of the things around me?

She stood and scanned the computer displays. They were all on, even though no one sat at any of the stations. She wondered idly where all the money for this equipment had come from. Rook had said the town was remote and they didn’t even have telephones or wireless coverage. The entire lab was covert and underground. To Asya’s way of thinking, a government had to be involved. Possibly even her own.

None of the information on the displays—having to do with the weather outside the lab, the giant, curved metal cage and power levels in a ‘receptor’—meant much to her. She crossed the floor to the room’s only door. She opened it slowly and walked out in a very slow, dreamlike shuffle. She let the focus in her eyes loosen, careful not to stare at anything in particular. Walking was difficult at first, but the more steps she took, the easier it became.

The massive glowing sphere cast brilliant light from the center of the room. She intentionally stayed on the edge of the cavernous space, avoiding the influence of the sphere, but not appearing to do so.

She didn’t see any people, but there were a few of the white creatures with the spooky eyes moving around the chamber. They looked at her with their heads turned awkwardly to the side, almost far enough to break their own necks, she thought, unless they can turn their heads all the way like owls.

She continued her dazed walk, noting whenever a creature would move in her peripheral vision, but none of them advanced on her position. They just seemed restless to her. When she reached the tunnel where she’d deposited Rook in the pit, she moved past it. She realized that she had no way to get him out of the pit.

If he was still alive.

She wanted to hurry, but the lingering creatures might notice. She needed to find a rope or something she could use to help Rook. Something I can conceal in this coat.

She moved to the office where she recalled cutting the plastic bands on Rook’s wrists that attached him to the chair. She also recalled the gun the man had. It wasn’t a rope, but if it was still in the room, she would take it. She checked her pockets and found that the gun she had held on Rook and the knife she had used to cut him free were missing. She didn’t remember anyone taking those things from her, but neither could she recall giving them up.

The office was empty. No knife, no guns and even the laptop the man had used was gone. She waited in the office for a minute so it looked like she had a reason for being there if the white watchers, as she thought of them, were intelligent and paying attention to her movements.

Then she left the room and started around the circumference of the great room again. A few of the watchers were still in the massive space, but some of them were gone. She tried to look covertly around the room as she shuffled along the wall, looking for another place to explore. The next door was labeled with a mop and bucket symbol on the door and the legend: Freiheitsstrafe Schrank. She realized it was German for a Janitor closet. She didn’t think she would find a rope in there, but it might do for her to check on the way back.

The next door was more promising. It had a legend of a lightning bolt on it and the word: Sicherheitsraum. It was one of the few German words she knew. The first part meant “security” and the -raum portion meant “room.” She calmly walked in and closed the door behind her before reaching for a light switch.

She flicked on the light and stifled a scream.

For the second time in one day, she had illuminated the space around her to find it full of bodies.

FIFTY-FOUR

Endgame Headquarters, White Mountains, NH

The mood in the subterranean base was grim as everyone packed up for a war. Deep Blue and King had returned to the base in the Black Hawk and found the White Team members just finishing packing up. The Persephone was loaded up with weaponry, more of the armored suits and computer arrays. By the time the Black Hawk touched down outside the Central section’s enormous hangar door, Deep Blue was pleased to note that Lewis Aleman was installed in a computer station inside the VTOL plane’s midsection. He would be monitoring the situation from inside the plane as it sat on the pavement, instead of inside the base.

Callsign: Black Seven, and his brother, Black Eight, the team’s mechanics, refueled the vehicle outside the hangar, readying it for the trip to Norway. Neither man spoke to him as he walked past them, which Deep Blue appreciated. They were focused on their job, even if it wasn’t the most glorious of positions.

The five members of the White security team, with callsigns White One through White Five, were stationed around the crescent-shaped transport ship, each man in snow-battle armor and armed with white-coated Mk 17 FN SCAR assault rifles. They each looked vigilant and angry.

Good, Deep Blue thought. Be angry and use that in Norway if you get a chance.

Each man was from the 10th Mountain Division at Fort Drum, and there were no better men for an arctic or alpine assault force than 10th men. The White team was specifically tasked with duties at the Endgame base, and these men were tasked with keeping the base secure. In any other circumstance, they would be staying behind, protecting Fiona and Sara, keeping support team members like Lewis Aleman and even himself safe from any attack by hostile forces. What the Chess Team field members—King, Queen, Bishop, Knight and Rook—did out in the world was difficult enough, without having to worry about the people you loved or the sanctity of your home. But this situation was desperate; the entire world was in danger, and Deep Blue had two members of Chess Team already missing and presumed dead. Another two members were already on site in Norway, but he had no idea if they were alive, captured or in the thick of things. Anna Beck, callsign: Black Zero, and Deep Blue’s covert operative, Black Six, were en route to Norway now.

The newly christened Endgame organization was scattered, and he didn’t yet know what to expect from this stabilized portal in the Arctic. He wanted every resource close and readily available. As he approached the hangar door, which he’d had to have refitted after a security incident earlier in the year, he saw Matt Carrack approaching him. Carrack, callsign: White Zero, was the head of base security and Deep Blue’s right hand in all things since his promotion to the role the previous summer. The man looked the part of his callsign, with his all-white Arctic gear and his weapons covered in white cloth wraps as well. Like the other security team members, Carrack wore the white version of the experimental impact-resistant armor. He carried his helmet under one arm as he approached Deep Blue.

“Sir. We’re just about ready to go. King is inside with Jet and Professor.” Carrack was referring to Sara Fogg by her security codename of Jet—a sly reference to her spiky black hair, likening her to the rock singer Joan Jett. Fiona had a security codename of Professor, because of her linguistic abilities. Neither woman was aware of the names, chosen by Carrack. The men studiously avoided using the names around the two.

Deep Blue looked at the man and nodded. He understood. King was saying goodbye. Just in case. “That’s fine, Zero.” In the field now, Deep Blue would refer to Carrack by his callsign, where he would normally refer to the man as Matt—one of the few team members with whom he would be so personal.

“The pilots and Black Five are aboard, as is Aleman. Rome—” Carrack had deemed George Pierce, callsign: Rome, “—is staying behind with Jet, Professor and the rest of Black Team. I’d prefer to have at least one security member with them, but I understand it’s not possible.”

Deep Blue nodded. “It’s not.”

Carrack continued. “Black One and Two will rendezvous with us just past Iceland. I’m ready to seal the base on your word. I have all the equipment you’ll need waiting for you on the plane.”

“Okay, just give me a minute with King.” Deep Blue left the man standing on the pavement and stepped into the dim hangar.

Deep Blue looked into the glassed-in office at the back of the hangar, just in time to see Fogg and Fiona unwrap their arms from around him. A group hug. The man was lucky. Tom Duncan had always been single, even as President. And he hadn’t had time to think about dating since.

No one in the office was speaking. Deep Blue walked up to the door and stuck his head inside the room.

“Am I interrupting?” He could see that their faces were drawn and tight.

Fogg wiped a stray tear from her eye. She looked at Deep Blue and said, “If you come back without him, I’ll—”

“Won’t happen,” Deep Blue said with forced confidence.

To his surprise, Fogg wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed him tight. “Be careful, Sir.”

He felt pressure on his waist and looked down to find Fiona squeezing him. He smiled at King. They were both lucky men.

“Enough of that,” King said. “We’ll be fine.” He leaned down to Fiona and spoke three words Deep Blue didn’t understand.

Fiona’s reply was just as mysterious. But then King kissed her forehead, kissed Fogg hard on the lips and headed to the door without another word.

Deep Blue followed, asking, “What did you say?” Though he had a pretty good idea.

“She’s teaching me to speak Siletz,” King explained. “I told her if you came back without me to keep Sara away from you.”

Deep Blue laughed. He had always appreciated the team’s ability to find humor before entering a lion’s den, or in this case, a dire wolf den.

Aleman approached, his face grim.

All the humor Deep Blue felt quickly drained out of him. He had worked with Aleman for a long time now and could read his facial expressions and body language with ease. “What is it?”

Aleman met the two men and looked at the floor, his lips twitching. “Casualty reports from the Exxon Building portal and collapse.”

Deep Blue frowned. Casualty reports with just one name on the list were hard to deal with. He knew this report would be far more difficult. But he needed to know. “How many?”

“Two thousand civilians, mostly taken by dire wolves. Despite being in New York, the number is lower than other areas because it appeared so far above the surface.”

“Military casualties?” Deep Blue asked.

“Two hundred and climbing. They’re still digging through the rubble. But...” Aleman squirmed. “They were able to confirm... Sir, General Keasling—he was below—he…”Aleman shook his head, then met Deep Blue’s eyes and used Keasling’s first name. “Michael is dead.”

THE SOUND OF FURY

FIFTY-FIVE

Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0100 Hrs

ANNA BECK SHOT out of the sky at 700 mph, in a speed dive. The great thing was, she didn’t feel the effects of the jump on her body beyond the sensation of falling—no wind resistance or lack of oxygen. She was plummeting to the Earth from a temporarily retrofitted and recommissioned SR-71 Blackbird, from an altitude of 80,000 feet.

Even in a spacesuit, she wouldn’t have wanted to do a high-altitude low-opening (HALO) jump from such a height. But she had something much better than a spacesuit: the high-altitude, low-opening personnel orbital deployment vehicle—or HALOPOD. Resembling a very skinny egg of heat-resistant ceramic, titanium and reinforced carbon-carbon (RCC), which gave the nose of it the same black-snout look that the space shuttle had, the pod was a tiny capsule for a human to ride in. It was nose heavy, and had no motor, so it was basically a bomb.

With a human payload.

Inside the pod, Beck was cushioned in impact foam and a harness that barely allowed her to breathe. The pod performed one duty only. It protected the HALO jumper from the extremes of atmospheric heat. When she hit an altitude of 15,000 feet, the pod would deploy its own parachute, which would jolt her speed down to a reasonable pace. She had had to sit in a special oxygen chamber with Black Six for hours before the drop, on board the SR-71, while they traveled over the Atlantic. Six was now in his own pod, dropping a hundred feet away from Beck. But she couldn’t see him. She couldn’t see anything. The HALOPOD had no windows. Even if it did, it was the middle of the night in the high altitude Arctic sky. It was just as dark outside the pod as it was inside. She had only one thing to look at.

She eyed the digital altimeter on the inside of her black helmet’s faceplate, inches from her eye. The red LED numbers whirred in a countdown. 30,000 feet. Her speed was 753 mph. A new world record, she thought. Although she realized that was only compared to known and recorded feats. That the US Air Force still had commissioned and fully functional SR-71s was news to her, and she had never heard of the HALOPOD either. She wondered how many records had been covertly broken and never reported.

She didn’t mind the drop. It was strange to fall for so long, but she was packed in so tightly that she was comfortable. All she had to do was wait. 20,000 feet.

At 15,000 feet, the HALOPOD deployed its parachute and the unpowered vehicle jolted to what felt like a stop in mid air. Beck felt her stomach attempt to crawl out of her throat, but then her mind was on other things. The pod hissed around her. Then small charges set in a seam around the egg vertically, detonated, shooting the two elongated halves of the pod safely away from Beck’s body, and leaving her free falling again.

Now free to move her limbs, Beck pulled her arms from her sides and spread her legs, tearing open the Velcro that had kept her limbs glued to her sides. Between her armpits and her legs, the parachute fabric of the wingsuit’s wings deployed, giving her the ability to glide in her second descent. The wings scooped the air, and Beck pulled her left arm in a few degrees, adjusting her trajectory. She could see Black Six ahead of her in the distance, spinning in his yaw axis, because of the lack of any vertical stabilizer on his wingsuit.

Amateur, she thought. So much for the sexy secret agent.

As she watched, Black Six, simply pulled his legs and arms together to get out of the spin, and after a second or so, his body repositioned in a straight vertical plunge. He moved his arms and legs out again to scoop the air with his wingsuit, and this time, his movements were perfect.

Huh, Beck thought. Nice recovery.

Beck dipped and dove down a little lower and closer to Black Six, then leveled out again. It wasn’t as dark as she had expected it would be at this time of night. She couldn’t see any auroras, but the sky was a deep blue in places and black in others. The net effect was that visibility was far better than she could have hoped.

The counter in her faceplate kept speeding down and as it reached 5000 feet, she readied herself for the end of her flight. At 4000 feet, she moved her hand toward the pull ring for her parachute. She was supposed to pull at 3000 feet, but when she reached it, she saw that Black Six hadn’t pulled his chute yet. She wanted to fall longer than him. She didn’t know why she felt competitive toward the man she had only met earlier that day, but she did.

2000 feet and he still hadn’t pulled his chute.

At 1000 feet she almost chickened out, but she saw his parachute start to deploy. She gave herself ‘one Mississippi’ and then pulled her cord. Her parachute yanked her descent into a slow fall. The sky was clear, the stars shone brightly and from the harness of her parachute, Anna Beck began examining the snow-covered ground of her landing site. But then she thought she saw something and she blinked to clear her eyes. She stared at the snow below her, squinting to see if she could spot it again. Movement. Lots of movement.

As she came down to within 100 feet of the snow-covered hillside, she heard Black Six’s terrified whisper in her earpiece, breaking the radio silence they were supposed to observe.

“Mother of God, there must be a hundred of them.”

He was right. Tearing through the snow 70 feet below her, in the direct path of her landing, there was a small crowd of about ten dire wolves, swarming in one location, jostling and fighting for a spot at the center and being repeatedly shoved back. The other ninety or so streaked through the snowdrifts and tried to get to the crowd from several directions. When Beck got to 50 feet, she thought the dire wolves were fighting, like in a schoolyard brawl.

At thirty feet, she recognized the combatant at the core of the brawl, punching, kicking, flinging and cussing out one dire wolf after another.

“Damn,” she said. “That’s Queen.”

FIFTY-SIX

Over the Arctic Ocean

4 November, 0100 Hrs (Norway Local Time)

THE PERSEPHONE RACED through the night sky, ripping a sonic boom over the northern coast of Greenland. Deep Blue sat back in his chair at a computer desk and rubbed his eyes. While he had given up being President of the United States, he found it difficult to give up some of the perks. As President he had been spoiled by the office furniture aboard Air Force One. When he had stepped down, he made sure to kit out the Crescent with a luxurious office, complete with all the computing power he would ever need as Deep Blue.

But the Air Force’s Persephone, the similarly designed ship he rode in now, was more utilitarian. It had bunks for sleeping and cargo-net type chairs for sitting in. The desk he sat at now was a small modular one that Aleman had gotten the White security team to carry aboard. His chair was a cheap office chair from Staples with no armrests. Plus, the ship had a smell to it. A smell he would always associate with the military after his days as a Ranger. Sweat, dirt, rubbing alcohol…and something else he couldn’t place. That odd something else was always around in every military space he had ever been in, whether buildings, ground vehicles, ships or planes. Over time, he had come to think it was the smell of impending death.

He leaned back in the feeble chair a little further, and twisted his back to get comfortable. Lewis Aleman sat across the room from him at a similar desk with two laptops and a tablet computer arrayed on the small particleboard desk. Deep Blue had tried to get the man to take some sleep, but he had claimed insomnia. Looking at Aleman now, he could believe it. The man had changed into white BDUs like everyone else, and he had showered and shaved, which Deep Blue hadn’t bothered to do, but he looked exhausted. Aleman looked more alert than anyone else at this point. Only a few of the others aboard were even awake. Matt Carrack remained awake, while his men slept in the bunks. Even King was asleep.

He looked back at Aleman and sighed. “Anything new?”

“Packers are doing okay.”

Deep Blue chuckled. “You’re a Green Bay fan?”

“No, I could care less about football.” Now it was Aleman’s turn to smile. But the smile spoke volumes on how grim the situation was. “But you wanted to know what was new. Most of what I’ve been seeing here indicates that the basic problem I told you about—the world ending soon from being turned into Swiss cheese by the portals—hasn’t changed.”

“What’s our timeframe look like?” Deep Blue tried to sound unconcerned, like he was asking about the weather. But he had hired Aleman because the man was smarter than anyone he had ever known. He was unlikely to be fooled.

“Two to four days, but probably closer to the two.” Aleman’s face was grim, all traces of smiles and jocularity gone.

“What? Why? What’s happened?” Deep Blue sat up straight in his chair. If he had felt sleepy before, he was wide-awake now.

“Seismic activity around the world suggests the existence of portals that we’re not seeing. You saw for yourself that some are opening far above the surface of the Earth.”

“Oh God, inside the Earth.” Deep Blue shook his head. “How deep?”

“No way to know, but a portal in the wrong place could set off massive earthquakes, floods or worst-case scenario, a mega-volcano like the one in Yellowstone park. If that happened, we wouldn’t have to wait for the portals to finish chewing up the planet.”

Deep Blue could see that Aleman wasn’t quite done. “What else?”

“Well, going with the theory that whatever is causing the portal in Norway to stabilize is of human origin, there must be some kind of a receptor. Possibly in the shape of a bowl or a cage. Something that would regulate the size of the portal. Contain it. We won’t know what that is until we get there. Also, if the thing is being powered locally, it would take one hell of an energy source too. With that in mind, I checked Arctic satellite scans for the last few weeks, and looked for heat sources. Rook’s little town of Fenris Kystby has a huge power plant on the edge of town. I’m guessing that’s the target. The Crescent is due to rendezvous with us over the Svalbard Archipelago, before we get to the mainland. They’re still carrying the nuclear device the UK was going to provide to Bishop and Knight. Their man got there just before Black One was ready to leave. I think if we can’t shut this thing down on the ground, we have the Crescent nuke the site, destroying the stabilization mech-anism and the power plant all in one go.”

Deep Blue looked at Aleman for a minute before he spoke. “This is crazy.” Aleman looked down at the laptop screen as if his idea had been ridiculed. “No, no. It’s a solid contingency plan. Let’s just hope we don’t have to resort to it. I’m not sure the Norwegians would ever forgive us.”

“I’m not sure the Norwegians aren’t behind this.”

Deep Blue laughed hard. Aleman joined in with him.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Fenris Kystby, Norway, 4 November, 0100 Hrs

ROOK ACTIVATED THE LED backlight on his wristwatch and saw that it was just after one in the morning local time—he’d been down in the pit with the dead for hours.

“Fuckity McFuck Sauce,” Rook hissed through his teeth, not for the first time.

He understood that the pheromones from the big energy doorway were controlling Asya the same way the other scientists working for Fossen had been. He also realized that she must have been fighting the pheromone control to some degree. She had given him the little LED flashlight and told him to hold it tightly. He just wished she had been able to stop herself from kicking him down into this hellhole.

He sat on the heap of dead dire wolves and fondled the little plastic light in his hand. He didn’t activate it. He had already seen the pit and the bodies. He had scoured every part of the pit looking for a way out. He had tried scaling the walls too, but his bulk was all wrong for delicate rock climbing, and his center of gravity didn’t help. Every time he got a few feet up from the pile of mashed dire wolf corpses, he would fall off the wall, landing in the spongy mass. The last time he had cracked his head on the side of the pit, too, and that had put an end to any further climbing attempts.

He sat on the pile with his back against one of the lumpy walls. His head hurt, he was ravenously hungry and his mood was as dark as it ever got. Fossen was up there, opening a freeway for monsters from the outer limits to come destroy the world. Rook’s team was on the other side of the planet. He was trapped and helpless.

And Queen was up there somewhere.

Where are you, Zelda? Has that bastard controlled you like Asya? Did you run into a dire wolf? Are you lost?

Rook had done a lot of thinking on Queen during his time in Norway. He knew he had feelings for her. Couldn’t deny that any longer. She was smart, bad ass tough, trustworthy and looked good slathered in head-to-toe mud.

He smiled at the memory of the two of them, covered in mud for camouflage, hiding in a tree from a bunch of human-Neanderthal hybrids. Good times. He’d been on the receiving end of Queen’s fury that day, too, when she’d mistaken his muddy form for the enemy. But today was different. When he hung up that phone and turned around to see Queen...the look in her eyes. She was hurt. Queen was hurt. And he’d done the hurting. He regretted it, but it also confirmed what he suspected.

His growing affection was mutual.

Of course, all the affection in the world did diddly-squat for him right now.

He growled in frustration until his voice was hoarse. Then he heard a scraping noise on the other side of the pit. Something sliding.

Sonovabitch, what now?

He pressed the button on the little LED flashlight and the scene was suddenly as bright as day in the blue-white light. The grayish-white skins of the piled-high genetically engineered dire wolf pups were everywhere. He saw nothing that might have caused sound. Nothing—

A small mound of dire wolf corpses shifted to his left. Then they stopped.

Then the same pile moved again.

Something was moving under the dead monster babies.

Rook played the light around the confined space and the pile of dead shifted again. He stopped breathing and moved a hand over the light to dim it, but not extinguish it entirely. He wasn’t afraid. Wasn’t capable of it. He was filled with so much seething rage at his confinement that fear didn’t exist. The presence of something living in the pit with him filled him with a desire to fight it. He was a hunter now and whatever it was that shared this pit with him, it was his prey.

Slowly, Rook moved his legs under him so he could pounce if necessary. The shifting of the mound stopped. He waited, still holding his breath. When it emerged, it happened so fast that Rook fell backward, startled.

A few of the crushed baby dire wolf bodies launched a foot into the air as a furry gray snout erupted from the pile. The creature’s head was rounded but with a short elongated snout. Its eyes were beady black specks in its fur, and its nose was a black lump at the front of its head. When it opened its mouth and Rook saw the teeth, he knew without a doubt what it was. He had seen plenty of them in the woods around Fenris Kystby.

Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf? Course, you’re bigger and badder than most.

Rook let the light hit the creature fully as it struggled out of the vertical tunnel it had dug through the corpses. The wolf was huge. At least six foot long, with a wet matted coat that was dark in front and gradated to white by the time it reached the hindquarters. Rook had never seen a wolf like this.

The creature had elongated, white-furred legs and no tail. Its front half looked normal, but its back half had powerful muscles that looked almost human. The rear paws weren’t paws, but feet. With talons.

Damn, Rook thought. That batshit Fossen left a half-wolf, half-dire wolf abortion down here to die. Looks like death didn’t take.

Then he realized he was the one who’d been left to die. There was no way Fossen didn’t know about this beauty. Rook stayed perfectly still, wondering if the creature would attack or not.

Then it opened its huge jaws like a cat yawning—large enough to swallow most of Rook’s face. And the thing snarled at him.

Right, that’s it for you, Benji.

The hybrid lowered itself, its muscles tensing, preparing to spring. But Rook surprised it. He lunged across the the pit and slammed his body into the startled creature.

The pair crashed against the brick wall. Rook ignored the jarring impact and mashed his head down on the thing’s snout as it dug its two-inch-long fangs into his shoulder, which wasn’t the best move in hindsight since he helped push the wolf’s top canines deeper in the meat of his shoulder. He shouted in pain, but so did the wolf. It released his shoulder, snarling and snapping at Rook’s face.

Rook growled, too, as he pummeled the side of its head with his meaty fist, aiming for the soft temple behind the eyes. A hard enough strike should knock the thing out. But it squirmed and flailed, slipping from his grasp.

The creature leapt away and barked at him, then leapt at his throat. Rook tucked his chin and fell back into the soft mound of Fossen’s failed experiments, pulling his legs up and kicking the flying wolf up and over him, smashing it into the far wall of the pit.

Rook, still desperately clutching the LED light in his left hand, spun around on the mound to see the beast hit. He was shocked to see the creature violently twist its body in mid air like a cat and land with its hind legs on the wall. The claws dug in, and the thing stayed attached to wall as if he had tossed a spaghetti noodle up to see if it would stick. The strange creature’s front legs hung away from the wall. They looked like normal wolf paws, unable to find purchase on the wall. The wolf craned its head up and opened its mouth, showing its teeth. Rook was certain the bastard was smiling at him.

It shot off the wall and rammed his stomach, slamming him back into the wall, where he hit his head yet again.

“That’s it!” He shouted. “Time for a fuckin’ lupine barbeque.” He doused and pocketed the LED light. He wouldn’t need it in these close confines, and he needed his left hand free.

Darkness engulfed the pit.

But not all his senses were blind.

The creature smelled horribly, and Rook guessed that he did too. He could hear it breathing and it could probably hear him. They would have no problems fighting each other in the dark.

Rook rolled as the beast snapped at him again, just clipping his forearm with its long muzzle, drawing a line of blood down his arm. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel the warm drip. Rook snatched out and grabbed the hybrid by the middle of both of its front legs, and rolled. His arms swung hard and the beast went with them. He slapped the entire creature’s body hard against the wall of the pit. While it was stunned, he wrapped his arms around the thing’s thin front legs and applied sudden, sharp pressure.

He winced at the sound of breaking bones, but the monster’s pain-filled howl drowned out the noise. Feeling merciful now that the creature sounded like any other wounded dog, Rook moved a hand to the creature’s neck and then moved his other hand up to join it. The wolf resisted, snapping at him, but it was a half effort. The pain from its broken limbs sapped its fight.

With a violent crack, Rook twisted the head 180º around, and the body slumped in his hands. He dropped the hybrid creature and fished out his LED from his pocket, admiring his handiwork.

“Who’s afraid of the big bad Rook?” he grumbled and then felt glad no one had been around to hear that particular gem.

“Now where the hell did you come from?” He moved over to the side of the pit where the thing had clawed its way free from the tiny dire wolf corpses and he found a tunnel.

Rook thought about it for a second. He rationalized that if the creature had gotten into the pit’s bottom, there must be an exit out somewhere. It couldn’t have just lived down here. There wasn’t enough for it to eat. The thing’s fur was wet too, so the tunnel must lead to water. He tried to remember any lakes or ponds in the area around the lab, but nothing came to him. Then again, it had been pretty cold for a while, and any nearby lakes must have frozen over.

I’m gonna get halfway down the friggin’ tunnel and another one of those things is gonna try to eat my head.

“What the hell,” Rook said and then moved over to the hole. He pushed some of the carcasses out of his way so he could slide down the tunnel head first. About a foot under the bodies, the tunnel made an S turn, and he had to struggle, grunt and squeeze to make the turns. He kept the LED illuminated ahead of him and saw that after the S turn, the tunnel widened out and moved upward at a slanting slope. The walls and ceiling were dark damp soil, but the floor was rough with yellow, grainy sand. As his legs came out of the S turn, Rook found he could actually get up to his hands and knees and crawl. It was better than wriggling like a worm.

The tunnel continued to slope upward, but the temperature dropped the further away from the pit he moved. Rook guessed he had gone about three hundred yards when the tunnel widened out to the inside of a large stick structure. Rook quickly recognized it as an abandoned beaver lodge in the rough shape of a dome. The ceiling was still low, but the room was large enough for maybe four adults to lie down side by side. It reminded him of a camping tent.

The wolf was using this for a den after eating Mr. Beaver.

He crossed to the far wall of the circular chamber and found a puddle. He guessed that he’d be able to glide through the underwater beaver tunnel. The only question was, what he would find on the other side? Was the lake or stream or whatever this puddle was connected to, frozen?

Goodbye crazy-ass wolf, hello hypothermia.

“Here goes nothing.” Gripping the LED in his teeth, Rook took a deep breath. Then he slid headfirst under the water and kicked with his feet until he was completely submerged in ice cold water.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0130 Hrs

ASYA IMMEDIATELY RECOGNIZED that the security officers with the glazed over eyes were still breathing. She thought they were dead when she turned on the light. They were sitting in the dark!

Even now, after she had come into the room and turned on the light, the four beefy, muscular males in darks slacks, shined shoes, white shirts and gold badges on their chests, didn’t move. They sat or slumped in chairs, at desks arrayed around the room. Their eyes were glassy, and they either stared at the screens in front of them or looked off in strange directions around the room like mannequins.

Their uniforms identified them as a security team working for the lab. Asya held her breath. The men still hadn’t noticed her.

They must be under control from the light. Lost in bliss.

Arrayed around the room were twenty flat-screen monitors showing footage—live she guessed—from closed-circuit TV cameras around the facility. On the wall was a hard white plastic floor plan of the lab, with the legend Gleipnir Lab 1. Past the men, she saw a black metal cabinet the size of a closet at the back of the room.

A weapons locker.

She debated retreating from the room. Instead, she stayed motionless and continued her own glassy-eyed stare. What will they do? Will they ignore me?

Then as one, all four men stood abruptly, startling her. They all turned their heads her direction, glaring at her. Like a flock of birds. Like the villagers.

She froze in place, tensing her muscles, waiting. She knew they would come. She was suddenly glad Rook and Queen were not here. She wouldn’t have to hold back for fear of what they would think of her.

The bulky men lunged at her all at once.

The two furthest from her slammed into each other. Their frenzied attempt to get at her in the narrow space between desks was passionate, but uncoordinated. The other two men, one slimmer and the other heavyset, were closer, and they came straight at her. No finesse. No tactics. They just rushed.

Asya leapt straight up, her knee connecting with the underside of the fat man’s chin. His head ricocheted off her knee with an audible chock. The man fell over backward, slamming his head hard against the wall. Before she could land from the leap, the taller, thinner man was wrapping his arms around her midsection. She thrust her head back, hitting him in the nose, the cartilage snapping and a gush of crimson flooded out of his nostrils, saturating his white shirt and the back of her hair.

When his grip loosened, Asya swiveled in his arms, facing him. She pushed against the underside of his arms with her hands, and slid down out of his grasp. The man tried to reassert his grip, but she surprised him, by shooting back upward, where he’d held her the moment before. She rammed the flat of her hand into his already injured nose. Blood sprayed. The shattered cartilage drove into his brain, killing him instantly. The man’s body fell away from her as she was tackled from behind.

Asya turned as she fell to see one of the two remaining guards. They were both big men with Nordic good looks, short blonde hair and glistening gray eyes. Acne marred their otherwise clear skin, which she assumed to be the result of steroid use. She hit the floor by the doorway and rolled in a crouch to her feet.

The man closer to her took a step forward, lumbering and trancelike.

Asya darted through his parted legs near the floor, then spun and shot a fist into the man’s groin. He buckled at the blow, but quickly recovered to stand straight up again.

It’s like they can’t even feel the pain. As she heard the last man step toward her from behind, she realized that she would need to kill these men. There would be no other way to stop them. Her only other choice would be to run.

And Asya Machtcenko did not run.

She darted to the side of the man she had hit in the groin. He reached out for her slowly, like the creature in an old Frankenstein film—a large sweeping grab, unfocussed and wild. She got around him, but he had carried the sweeping hand around, and it hit her back, knocking her against the closed door.

She moved to her left just as the man drove his fist into the door, where she had been seconds before. A solid crunch filled the air. The man broke at least one knuckle. She slipped around the other side of him, and made a run at the second, slower security man still standing.

Just before she reached him, she stepped up into the air, planted her foot on his thigh and ran up the man’s stomach and chest. She pushed off his broad pectorals and her head and arms shot back toward the door and Frankenstein’s guard. Her body flew horizontal, with her back to the ground, for just a foot before her arms found the lumbering guard’s head and neck. She grasped his thick neck with both hands and as the man that had acted as her ladder came closer, she wrapped her shins on either side of his neck too.

Together, the three of them formed a human bridge, with each guard acting as the uprights, and Asya stretched from neck to neck as the surface of the bridge. With a sudden and violent shift of her hips, Asya rotated her entire body in a horizontal twist, like a human top that had just been launched at speed. The spinning movement broke the neck of each burly man, before all three of their bodies pitched to the floor. The report of the cervical vertebrae fracturing in stereo was tremendous, and she feared the creatures from the larger room would be coming to investigate.

Extricating herself from the dead men, she scrambled to her feet. She slipped to the door of the room and opened it just a sliver. Out the crack into the large room, none of the white beasts were making for the security room.

Good.

The first man she had hit—the overweight man—began to stir on the floor. Asya lifted her leg, as if she were about to perform a simple ballet move, but then sprang up in the air and landed on the prone fat man’s neck with the bone of her knee and upper shin. The man made a sickening gurgle and grunt when his neck broke, and his eyes bulged from their sockets with the ramming impact of Asya’s entire weight, dropped from a five-foot height.

She stood again and quickly checked the man whose head had smacked against the stone wall of the room. His skull was cracked. Congealing blood coated the edges of the wound. It looked a brighter red than she would have expected. Like a young girl’s nail polish, thick and glossy. He wouldn’t be rejoining the fight either.

Asya looked at the live video feeds on the monitors around the room. One showed a room full of people sleeping on beds laid out like in an orphanage. The lab scientists, she assumed. Another showed the glowing sphere in the main room and a few of the creatures sniffing the air around it. Another showed the empty office where she had collected Rook at gunpoint, earlier in the night.

She saw more empty storerooms and offices. She had yet to come across tunnels or corridors, though. Some of the cameras showed views of doors outside, leading into the lab. One of those doors was ajar in the snow. She didn’t see any rooms that looked like they might have rope or weapons, so she would check the cabinet at the back of the room next.

A monitor screen with rows of electrical switchboards caught her eye. The room was filled with thick electrical cables. Another screen showed the entrance to the tunnel where she had taken Rook to the pit. Then she realized something and checked all twenty screens again. Fossen, the man that ran the place, was not on any of the cameras. Neither was Queen. And neither was the entrance to the lab she had used with Rook and Queen. A lot of blind spots in the surveillance. Asya walked over to the plastic map and looked at the floor plan. The tunnel back to the abandoned part of the lab was not even on the schematic.

She stepped around one man’s extended leg, and made her way to the black cabinet. She opened it slowly and it creaked with a barely audible squeal. Inside were a few of the Walther pistols like the one she had used on Rook, and two AR-15 rifles with black canvas straps. A hook on the inside of the cabinet door held a small hand towel. It smelled of machine oil, but she used it to wipe blood off her face and out of her hair. On the floor of the cabinet was a navy blue nylon bag. She knelt and unzipped it to find a black braided nylon rope.

Perfect.

She took the bag and threw it over her shoulder and then put two of the pistols in the pockets of the ridiculous lab coat she wore. She thought of taking the rifles, too, but she didn’t think she could conceal them well enough under the coat and they wouldn’t fit in the bag. She left them and made for the door. On a small hook by the door was a 6-inch plastic-barreled flashlight. She pocketed it in one smooth move.

Back in the large main lab, she once again skirted the wall in a slow shuffle and made for the tunnel back to Rook, forcing the glazed look back into her eyes. She kept expecting the creatures to see through the ruse. But the beasts ignored her as she walked.

When she reached the tunnel entrance, she almost slipped on a small puddle of liquid. She grimaced. Urine, maybe? She sighed and continued into the tunnel, figuring the beasts had to piss somewhere. A few steps further in, and she was concealed in shadow. She breathed a sigh of relief that she had once more passed the notice of the bulky white monsters.

That relief flooded away as she was grabbed from behind in the dark. A powerful limb wrapped around her throat and squeezed. Hard. The kind of hard that left her little doubt about what was going to happen next. I’m going to die.

FIFTY-NINE

Outside the Gleipnir Facility, Norway

4 November, 0130 Hrs

ANNA BECK TUGGED hard on the toggle of her parachute with one hand and pulled her 9 mm Browning from her leg holster with the other. She fired several shots at the dire wolves on the fringe of the melee, not wanting to risk hitting Queen by firing too close to the center. In another two seconds, her feet hit the ground. She quickly released the harness of the parachute, but the dire wolves were ignoring her and still rushing for Queen.

As she freed herself from the harness and rolled in the snow to take up a firing stance on her knee, she saw Queen viciously head butt a dire wolf under its chin, sending its head back in a whipping arc, and a spray of white liquid squirting from its snout. Before its head hit the ground, Beck put a bullet in it. She fired twice more before she heard automatic fire from behind her.

She twisted in the foot-deep snow to see Black Six firing short bursts with an MP5 submachine gun. The muzzle flash lit up the snowy white expanse of the field between the hills in splashes of orange. They had muzzle suppressors for the MP5s back in New Hampshire, but no one thought this mission would involve stealth. They were here to do some damage. She watched him drop four dire wolves, their bodies contorting in agony after the bullet impacts, and then dying far more abruptly than a human would.

She fired her Browning a few more times, dropping dire wolves with headshots. She heard Queen growl like a feral animal and saw her knock one of the dire wolves away from her with an uppercut.

“Good God,” Black Six said, his voice a mixture of fear and awe. “Look at her.”

“Now you know why she’s in the field and I guard an underground bunker,” Beck replied.

Beck raced over to the center of the fight. She fired the last few shots from her weapon at point-blank range as the dire wolves still attempted to dog-pile Queen, ignoring Beck completely.

Beck recognized the situation. Even if she didn’t know why, she would take advantage of it. She fired until her magazine was empty, then holstered the weapon and drew her knife—a wide, curved blade, Gurkha Kurkri Plus manufactured by Cold Steel. More machete than knife with its swept 12-inch blade, Beck hacked at the first few dire wolves she could get to and then stabbed two more in the backs of their necks. She couldn’t believe that the creatures were ignoring her until she got closer to Queen and smelled the woman.

“Oh dear God,” she shouted. “What the hell is that funk?”

“I know,” Queen growled while striking a dire wolf in the throat with her knuckles and then stabbing a thumb into its eye. She was coated in sticky white fluid and bleeding from several places as well. “I know! I caught one in the crotch and it sprayed me with its fuckin’ goo like a skunk!” Beck could hardly hear the woman over the bursts of MP5 fire from Black Six, as the man kept the remaining oncoming horde of dire wolves further away from the skirmish.

Then Beck had an idea. She sheathed the Kurkri, inserted a fresh magazine into her Browning and started firing at the approaching dire wolves, aiming for their nether regions. Gouts of white fluid burst and pulsed from the wounds as the beasts went down to the snow, and she soon saw some of the other dire wolves going to the injured ones, instead of after Queen.

She ran over to Black Six’s position, where he stood knee deep in snow, and she took up firing next to him. “Aim for the balls.”

“They don’t have balls!”

“Well there’s something there. Some kind scent sack.”

Black Six calmly adjusted his aim and mowed down the next wave of the creatures, firing at waist level. A few of the creatures’ genital areas burst when the 9 mm rounds ruptured the milky white skin at the groin. White liquid sprayed.

Black Six groaned. “Fuckin’ nasty.”

The next wave of dire wolves, about seven of the beasts, stopped at the row of freshly dead and began clawing into the corpses. Black Six and Beck exchanged a look. “I got this,” he said.

Beck raced back to Queen to help her dispatch the last two creatures, but she needn’t have bothered. Despite the multiple wounds on Queen’s body and the muck that coated her, the woman still moved with quick grace and powerful strikes, taking down one more beast with an eye jab and then the last by leaping up onto its chest and twisting the creature’s powerful neck until a loud crack rang out. Beck counted twenty-two bodies piled on the ground by Queen’s feet, and several more around the main fight, that she had shot after ditching the parachute.

Queen looked at her, breathing hard, covered in a mix of red and white gore, the bright red skull on her forehead glaring through the muck.

Beck couldn’t hide the shiver that ran up her spine. She’d heard stories about Queen’s hand-to-hand combat skills, but never imagined that she—or anyone else aside from some mythological God of war—could be capable of such carnage. It was horrifying, yet in these circumstances, a thing of beauty.

Queen stood bent over with her hands on her knees, breathing hard. Beck walked up to her slowly. She stopped a few feet away. The stink was horrendous. “You gonna be okay?” Queen nodded. Beck took a step back scrunching her nose. “Ugh. Maybe roll around in the snow for a few minutes or something.”

Queen stood and wiped the muck from her face and flung her arm to the side. A long sticky strand of thick white viscous liquid shot off her fingers until the strand snapped and the glob went into the snow. Beck made a face.

“Who are you?” Queen asked. She looked like she might be readying for another fight.

“Anna Beck, callsign: Black Zero. Deep Blue sent me.”

Queen nodded. “I remember you, now. From the fight with the Hydra, right?” She wiped another stream of thick glop from her face. “Too bad Deep Blue didn’t send the others too. We could use them.”

“He and King and the rest of the team are two hours out,” Black Six had stepped up to them, the threat of the oncoming dire wolves diminished as they all scrambled to attack the piles of their recently deceased brethren instead of Queen. “I’ve got extra firearms. You need anything?”

Queen looked back to Beck and smiled. “I’ll take that knife, if you’re willing to part with it.”

“No gun?”

Queen shook her head, no. “I’m a hands-on kind of girl.”

Beck nodded. “I noticed.”

SIXTY

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0200 Hrs

ASYA MACHTCENKO COULDN’T breathe. Something was crushing her windpipe. She fumbled a hand into one of the oversize pockets of her coat and her fingers grazed the plastic barrel of the flashlight. She had been going for the gun but couldn’t reach it. The light would have to do. She swung it up, trying to pummel her assailant. She struck something solid, but all she managed to do was switch on the light, which flashed over the walls as she continued to fight.

She struggled to get even a small breath in, but the arm clamped onto her tighter with the crushing power of a bulldozer. Then she heard a gruff whisper near her ear. “Turn that friggin’ thing off or I break your neck.”

Rook! She recognized his voice. She complied with his request, plunging the tunnel back into darkness. She still fought and struggled to break free from his powerful grasp. Her lungs were screaming at her now. She thrust her cranium back, smashing him in the bridge of his nose, and his grasp loosened, but he didn’t let go.

“Let go,” she hissed. “I am okay. I am not being controlled!”

Rook’s vice grip loosened, but didn’t let go.

“I nearly died in that pit,” he grumbled.

Asya could feel the back of her clothing soaking through. Rook was completely wet. He was also vibrating with anger.

“I was being controlled,” she whispered at him in the dark, “but I was still trying to help you.”

“You mean that little flashlight? Lotta good it did me down there.” His voice was petulant, but he let her go.

“Why did you not climb out? I did.”

“Up that brick wall? You must be Spider-Woman.” Now the man only sounded tired.

She paused a moment, in the dark. All she could hear was Rook breathing. “Then how did you get out of the pit, if not up the walls?”

“You wouldn’t friggin’ believe me if I told you. You’re sure you’re free and clear from the pheromones, now?”

“I came back to get you out. I have a rope and two guns.” She held out the pack. “Here, take one.”

The small LED flashlight she had given him lit up. Rook was covering the end of it with his hand, so it would only cast a dim red glow, but it was enough for her to see. He was soaked and covered in mud. She reached out to him, handing him one of the Walther pistols. He took it then doused the light.

“I had to fight the influence of these ‘pheromones.’ It comes from the energy ball—not from the creatures,” she told him as he expertly chambered a round in the Walther.

“The dire wolves,” Rook corrected.

“They are in the main room. Six of them. I had to pretend to be under the influence still. Walking like a hypnotized woman. Glassy eyes. They let me pass, but they still paid attention. We have to be careful. Do not get too close to the light ball. But if it gets you, you get very happy. You feel everything will be fine. The antidote is to get very angry. Frustrated.”

“Getting angry is rarely a problem for me. Where’s Queen?” There was a note of deep concern in Rook’s voice.

“I do not know. I have not seen her.”

“And Fossen?” Rook’s voice took on the glistening edge of a razor.

“I saw only four guards, in a security room. They are all dead now. I haven’t seen any of the people in lab coats for hours, but I saw them in the security feeds, sleeping in beds. Also, one of the doors to the outside was open. Perhaps we should just get out of here.”

“That open door was me coming back inside,” Rook said. “Listen, you already figured out that Stanislav was not my real name. Queen and I are a part of an American military team. We deal with this kind of stuff. Evil nutjobs like Fossen. Weird crap like the dire wolves. It’s all part of the job. I don’t know exactly what’s coming through that portal out there, but Fossen believes it will destroy the entire planet. We’ve got to stay and try to stop him.”

“I understand, but what can you do?”

“There’s a big machine around that glowing monster testicle. I’m gonna smash the crap out of it and hope that turns it off.”

“Eloquent plan,” Asya said, sounding unsure.

“What can I say,” Rook added. “I’m the brains of the outfit.”

He moved back to the light and Asya followed him, pulling the second gun from her other pocket and chambering it. When Rook reached the lit end of the tunnel, he moved against the left wall, shielding him from the view of any dire wolves that might still be in the massive portal chamber.

Rook held the gun up near his face and looked back at Asya. “On three, we jump out and if there’s any of the dire wolves, we shoot them in the heads. Besides holding me hostage, you ever fire a gun before?”

She nodded. “I was in the army a long time ago.”

“Okay. In the heads, remember. You said there were six, right?” She nodded again, holding her own pistol at the ready. “Right. One, two…

“…three.”

Rook leapt out from behind cover and Asya followed, but neither of them fired a shot. “Aww. Son-of-a—”

Thirty dire wolves turned toward him. Eirek Fossen stood at the center of the pack. He stood calmly and the beasts around him held a relaxed posture.

“Stanislav,” Fossen said with a nod of greeting. “I’m afraid this is where we part ways. For good.” He backed away toward the portal. “The time for my ascension has come.” He raised his hands out to either side, making him look like Jesus on the cross. Even tilted his head to the side a little. Then he stepped back into the light. As the glow wrapped around his face, he grinned and said, “Kill them.”

Then he was gone, transported to another world.

The demeanor of every creature in the room shifted from docile to hostile in a second. Moving as one, they rushed toward Rook and Asya, some running on two legs. Others loping on all four. Each and every one of them out for blood.

SIXTY-ONE

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0230 Hrs

ROOK FIRED FOUR shots—hitting a lumbering dire wolf in the head with each—and then ran across the massive chamber, remembering Asya’s warning to stay far from the glowing orb that stretched to the ceiling behind the creatures. Asya stayed at his side, firing as she ran. He didn’t have to tell her what to do, she just did it. Once again, the thought that there was more to this woman than she was letting on flitted through his brain. He wondered if she was a Russian spy or something. She certainly moved like it.

A dire wolf made it past the barrage of 9 mm fire that Rook and Asya sprayed around the room. It lunged low for Asya’s legs, and Rook marveled to see her deftly sweep her legs up and over the creature, with the fingers of one outstretched hand resting on the back of its head. It looked to Rook like a gymnastics move. Then, while still in the air, in mid leap over the beast, she pointed the Walther down and fired a round into the back of the dire wolf’s head—inches from where her hand balanced her entire body above it. She followed through on the graceful leap and landed lightly on her toes before the dire wolf’s now inert body slumped to the concrete floor of the huge room.

Rook fired his eighth shot and the breech locked back, telling him his Walther was out of ammunition. Another dire wolf reached him, swiping its glassy claws across his midsection. Rook jumped back, narrowly avoiding being eviscerated, as the claws traced shallow red lines across his stomach.

Barely noticing the wound, Rook punched hard, mashing a tennis-ball sized eye into the muscle and bone beneath it. The creature howled and twisted violently, swiping at Rook with its clawed hand, but he stepped back out of its range. He was about to go for its other eye, when the orb burst into a spray of sticky white liquid. Asya had used her last bullet to shoot the thing, and while the eye had detonated, the creature wasn’t dead—the bullet had not penetrated the beast’s skull. It rolled on the floor in agony and blindly swept out its claws at Rook and Asya.

They were both out of bullets and the rest of the dire wolves were still coming at them from across the huge room. They were no more than thirty feet away. “The stairs!” Rook ran as fast as he had ever run in his life. He might be able to take one of these things down, but he didn’t think he could take the horde, not even with Asya’s Ballet-Fu.

She reached the metal stairs before him. They led up to the catwalk, over a hundred feet above them. She raced up the stairs to the first landing, the metal steps clanging with that bong-thap sound metal stairs always made. Rook raced up the first flight behind her, then suddenly swiveled around, holding the railing, and swung his booted foot down the stairs to smash into the face of the first dire wolf on the steps behind him. The creature instinctively turned its head so the large eye on the side of its cranium could see him better.

Bad move, Bonzo. Rook had identified the large eyes as the dire wolves most obvious weak spot. So he aimed for it when he kicked. His booted foot hit the delicate eye. It squelched like a smashed grape. The creature’s body sprawled backward away from the assault and it slammed into the next beast behind it, sending them both flying to the floor.

Rook raced on up the stairs. He made it past the second landing before another dire wolf nearly reached him on the steps. Asya was a few flights above him. Rook glanced up the stairwell. Too many friggin’ steps.

The dire wolf swiped at his back and he felt the claws tear through the thick fabric of his wet coat. Then instead of taking another step, he threw his body backward, slamming into the creature. They both plunged down the flight of steps.

The dire wolf hit the landing hard.

Rook landed on top of it. He turned and slammed both hands on either side of the dire wolf’s head, pounding its eyes, and then scrambled to his feet. The dire wolf pistoned its legs where it lay on the landing and clawed at its now blinded face. The body turned slowly on the landing and Rook thought of the Three Stooges. He shoved hard with his foot and the beast’s body slid to the edge of the landing and under the knee-height guardrail. With a second shove, the creature fell away from the stairs.

He saw another beast coming up the lower landing and turned to sprint back up, but stopped in his tracks as another of the creatures finished climbing over the railing onto the steps several feet above him. Tricky bastard. He was trapped between them. He swiveled his head back and forth so see them both and took two steps toward the upper beast. Then he moved against the outer railing, still turning his gaze back and forth as quickly as he could. Neither creature moved. They tensed instead, both about to pounce. He placed his hands on the railing behind him. They sprang for him, the lower creature diving for his legs and the upper creature coming for his torso.

Rook pulled his legs up and stamped his boots onto the railing, then lunged upward, using his legs like springs. He shot up and grabbed the metal side of the flight of stairs above him, his legs swinging widely out over the 25-foot drop to the floor. The two dire wolves crashed into each other, rolling down to the metal landing below. A loud cracking noise punctuated the creature on top smashing its head against the metal railing. The one under it was unhurt from the crash, but it was pinned under the weight of the heavier creature on top.

Rook pulled hard and moved a leg up, climbing the side rails on the outside of the stairwell like monkey bars. He flipped over the top rail and onto the steps. Below him on the other side of the stairs, he saw two more of the dire wolves climbing and leaping up the outside of the stairs as he had just done. Beyond them, he saw another one racing up the wall of the room, now several flights higher than him. They were circling around to get to Asya.

He ran higher and stopped above the two dire wolves climbing up the outside of the railings. He grabbed the rail and flipped over it, to the outside of the stairs, landing feet first on the head of the first of the two dire wolves. The impact thrust the creature off the stairs and it fell to the floor. The other creature saw what was happening and shimmied to the side.

With Rook dangling by one hand from a railing thirty feet above the floor, the creature scrambled up and across the metal steps and rails to reach him.

Rook tried to pull himself up with his one injured arm—the shoulder he had injured first in the incident with Edmund Kiss, and then again in the fight at Peder’s farm and most recently when the hybrid poked four fresh holes in it. No good. Between those injuries and the similar stunt he had just pulled on the other side of the stairs, he was lucky his arm could hang on preventing him from falling.

The dire wolf leapt to dislodge him, its body flying upward through the air. Rook did the only thing he could think of.

He let go.

SIXTY-TWO

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0245 Hrs

QUEEN LED THE way into the main room of the lab and found pretty much what she had expected.

Mayhem.

The giant cage of metal fingers now held a hundred-foot diameter glowing sphere of light shooting random bolts of lightning, which arced back to electrocute the metal struts. A harsh metallic smell of electricity burns hung in the air.

Dire wolves—a lot of them—were arrayed around the room, running to the metal staircase, climbing up the stairs, scaling up the outside of the freestanding stairwell or running up the walls to the catwalk. Rook was three stories up, dangling from one arm with a dire wolf climbing up to him. Asya was close to the top of the stairs, slamming her foot into a dire wolf’s face as it tried to climb over the red metal railing.

She ran into the room heading for the first dire wolf closest to her, a big tall one, which stood at least a foot taller than the others. She held her broken hand in toward her body and raised the curved Kurkri knife.

Beck entered the room after her, armed with one of Black Six’s spare MP5s. She fired at the legs of the dire wolf attacking Asya. The bullets raked its legs and it dropped, falling down toward where Rook hung by one arm.

“Crap,” Beck shouted.

Rook let go as a dire wolf leapt at him. They crashed together in the air and began to fall together, grappling and struggling with each other.

Black Six stepped into the room after Beck and fired a shot that killed the falling dire wolf stories above Rook. He saw its trajectory would take it onto Rook’s head, and fired another burst, making the creature’s body spin and flip in the air until its head smacked the railing and its now punctured corpse ricocheted away from the stairwell as it continued its fall.

Rook pulled his legs up onto the chest of the dire wolf he fought, intending to use the body to cushion his fall. Instead, he stopped short of the floor, clutched in the grip of a dire wolf reaching out over the first floor railing, its claws digging into his sides.

But Rook had seen the dire wolf above him get shot. Someone was covering him. “Thanks for the catch, Deputy Dawg,” he said and leaned his head to the side. He heard the buzz of the bullet as it zipped past his ear and buried itself in the creature’s forehead. The talons slipped from his side.

Rook fell to the concrete, but the drop was manageable. He used the dead dire wolf below to soften his landing. The impact jarred him hard, but he turned the fall into a roll, converting the impact’s kinetic force into motion.

Queen saw Rook fall, but was too busy fighting the big one to help. It was cagey and knew to stay back from her slashing blade. She had no interest in continuing the standoff. “Black Zero! Crotch shot!”

She circled the big one again with the knife as Beck heard her request and fired at several nearby dire wolves, aiming at their groins. The third target’s crotch erupted with a spray of fluid, and the big dire wolf turned its head. That was all the distraction Queen needed. She leapt forward, slicing upward, and cut the thing from the middle of its huge sternum up to its throat. An arc of white blood sprayed outward from the beast, coating Queen in yet more fluid. The beast also defecated on the floor before it crumpled.

“That’s just wonderful,” Queen said, disgusted. Then she ran for the next living target.

Rook picked himself up off the floor, limping and holding his shoulder. He was injured.

“Rook!” Queen called to him. “Duck!”

Rook trusted Queen implicitly. He didn’t need to know why she’d told him to duck, only that she had. He dropped to the floor and rolled again, this time narrowly missing being shot as Black Six expertly targeted the dire wolf that had been coming up behind Rook. Its head and chest spasmed from the two shots, then it fell over backward. Rook got to his feet and approached Beck, who was firing on the last few beasts on the stairwell.

“Who are—Hopping crap on a pogo stick. You’re that Pawn that used to work for Ridley’s security goons, before joining our side in the fight against the Hydra.”

“Black Zero,” she said, handing him her Browning. “I’m with Endgame.”

Rook gladly took the weapon and aimed it at one of the last living wolves in the room. He squeezed the trigger twice, and the running creature—just getting up to its full speed in the confines of the lab—slumped over dead, its body skidding a few feet on the slick concrete.

“What’s Endgame?”

Beck killed the last dire wolf on the staircase, as it tried to leap upward on the exterior of the stairs. “Support crew for Chess Team.”

“We have a support crew? Nobody ever tells me these things.” Rook hung his head and held his shoulder with the Browning still in his hand. He grimaced.

Queen stepped over with Black Six. The man turned as he walked, checking all sides of the room, never lowering his weapon.

“Did you know we had a support crew?” Rook asked Queen.

“Nope. I’ve been running around Russia looking for you for the past few months. How would I know?”

Asya had run back down the stairs and leapt off the last few steps to the ground. She hurried over to where Rook stood and was about to ask him a question, but she stopped, her mouth hanging open. Then Black Six opened fire again and all heads turned toward the portal.

Dire wolves poured out of the pulsing energy portal. There were so many that they were actually climbing over each other to get out through the wall of light—a wall that stretched at its bottom to over twenty feet wide. Rook figured as many as fifty of them. They struggled and fought to push through the yellow brilliance, emerging to race across the slick concrete floor.

Black Six stopped taking single shots and began firing bursts. Beck opened fire as well.

Queen reached over to Black Six’s thigh and withdrew his Browning. She picked her shots and made them count. Body after body clogged the entrance of the portal.

Rook fired carefully, conserving the few shots of ammunition in the Browning.

Asya, unarmed now, raced behind everyone to the security room. Rook figured she was taking cover.

Even though the group had fired enough rounds of 9 mm ammunition to drop a herd of elephants, the creatures kept pouring into the room. They scampered over their dead, covering themselves in the blood of their fallen.

“This is not working,” Rook shouted. “We’re gonna get overrun here.”

Asya reappeared with two AR-15 assault rifles. She handed one to Rook and he handed her the Browning. He racked back the charging handle, and blasted another wave of the creatures. A puddle of white blood seeped out across the floor in front of the portal’s edge.

Black Six’s rifle stopped spitting its deadly hail of bullets and he shouted. “I’m out!”

Asya ran to him and gave him the second AR-15, then fired the last two rounds from the Browning, killing one of the dire wolves. Black Six opened up with the new weapon, dropping several more of the scrabbling creatures. When the weapon was empty, he retreated behind the rest of the group and out of sight. Rook kept firing until he was dry too.

“Too many,” Queen shouted. “Sons-a-bitches just keep coming!”

Dire wolf corpses littered the room now, and the pile at the entrance to the portal, a mound of arms and claws and bulging eyes, was at least four feet high. Seeing that the fight had nearly gone out of the group, the dire wolves slowed now as they stepped out of the light and into the cavernous room. Some squatted and sniffed the air. Others stepped forward slowly. More came through the glowing wall of energy. Rook watched as more and more came through and he lost track of the number.

They’re bleeding us dry, Queen thought, making us use all of our ammo. Fucking transdimensional rope-a-dope.

Rook turned to her. “We are going to need an escape plan before I run out of clean pairs of shorts today.”

SIXTY-THREE

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0300 Hrs

THE ENORMOUS HANGAR doors disguised to look like shaded rock from the exterior split down the middle, revealing a chaotic battle that looked to King like Hell on Earth. Hidden motors concealed in the walls churned as the doors retracted on wheels set into a track in the floor of the huge space. A gust of wind blew a swirl of snow into the incredible scene before him.

The room was gigantic, and it held a sparkling energy portal one-hundred feet high. The glowing orb threw lightning and disgorged dire wolves as if they were jumping off a truck on the other side. A huge metal cage held the portal in place like an eight-digit hand holding a ball. In front of the sphere, a pile of dire wolf bodies impeded the newly arriving monsters like a barricade of sandbags. Beck’s MP5 spat bullets at the creatures. Queen stood off to the side, covered in white fluid, like liquid marshmallow, firing a handgun at any of the beasts that got close.

Rook and some woman King didn’t know ran toward him as he stepped into the gunsmoke clouding the air. Black Six was off to the side of the hangar doors, where he had operated the controls to let them in.

“Get down!” King leveled an FN-SCAR rifle and fired. Rook and the woman dove to the side, hitting the floor and rolling away. As the dire wolves clambered over the pile of dead, King’s shots riddled their bodies until they slipped down the front of the pile or added to the top of it. A river of white blood seeped from the carrion heap, sliding across the concrete floor as slow moving rivulets.

King wore the black and gray impact armor, but no helmet. He was armed to the teeth with rifles, handguns on both hips and a bandolier of grenades across his chest. Deep Blue stood to King’s left, wearing his battered black impact armor and his futuristic black helmet that made him look like he was ready to ride a motorcycle in a Japanese Shoei commercial. The man took up firing right alongside him.

To King’s right stood Matt Carrack, wearing an arctic white version of the impact armor, with one of the matching white padded helmets. The five security soldiers armed in the white impact suits, carried rifles, heavy machine guns and even a few grenade launchers. Even Reggie, White Eight, their weapons expert, was suited up in one of the armored suits, but like King, without a helmet. Instead, he wore huge red and black ear muffs King had seen him use on the firing range back at Endgame headquarters.

They all opened fire and the sound was deafening in the echoing chamber.

Beck ran around the field of fire and up to the group. Her face showed that she understood what the absence of Knight and Bishop meant. Reggie supplied her with weapons and ammunition.

Reggie quickly supplied Queen, Rook and the woman with him, with a new MP5 and three extra magazines each. No words were exchanged. Just action. But even if they had tried to speak, the sound of ceaseless gunfire would have drowned out their voices.

Dire wolves continued to flow from the portal, but were met by a wall of projectiles that was impossible to pass through. And each new corpse slowed the advance of those just arriving. The floor was so cluttered with dead that King doubted the creatures could get up to speed, even without the bullets. The perfect bottleneck.

Rook staggered back against the wall, using it to prop himself up. He fired his newly acquired MP5 one handed, his other arm hanging limp at his shoulder.

Queen stayed close to the new arrivals, squatting to the floor and taking up a classic kneeling firing stance. The White security team members began to fan out to the sides, to catch any stray dire wolves that escaped the main fusillade of bullets blasting at the center front of the portal. One of the men was armed with a grenade launcher attachment under his FN-SCAR rifle and fired several shots inside the center of the portal.

The onslaught of dire wolves increased until the rate of fire wasn’t enough and more of them slipped past the bullets, several coming through the portal already airborne, as though flung from the other side. Their sleek muscular white bodies leapt and hopped to the sides of the fray. They got close enough to two of the White team members to attack. The first one leapt onto White Four, throwing him to the ground and tearing at the man’s armored suit. King knew it was Four by his size—short and stocky, the new White Four was a nice guy, but everyone had kept their distance. The last several White security team members had been killed in action when GenY, Richard Ridley’s former security force, attacked the New Hampshire base. King blasted the creature on top of Four with a concentrated burst and it fell to the side, but the man didn’t get up.

Another dire wolf ripped into the man with the grenade launcher, and the weapon skittered across the slick concrete, stopping near where the portal ate into the floor. The man pulled his sidearm and fired several shots, but the dire wolf hacked and clawed at him until one of his armored arms came loose with a pop. The creature flung the arm and it landed with a thump and a wet splat in front of Queen’s kneeling stance. She adjusted her aim and unloaded until the magazine went dry. The creature shook as she perforated its long body with 9 mm slugs. She reloaded and moved the sights of her weapon back to the oncoming wave of white muscled bodies, before the dead beast hit the floor.

The woman King didn’t know hung back, firing her weapon at any target that stood still long enough for her to see it. She’s a pretty good shot, whoever she is. Deep Blue and the others took positions around the room, a few lying down, a few standing and others kneeling like Queen.

One of the White security members set up a tripod, and Reggie loaded an M2 with its chain-fed .50 caliber death. The gun overpowered the sound of all the other weapons in the room. The metallic booming of the M2 sent the oversized bullets across the room, ripping into the dire wolf hordes as they emerged.

Blood sprayed.

Limbs severed.

ROOK DUCKED TO the floor near the man dealing death with the big machine gun. He picked up a rifle from a pile near the man. It was an M-16—the standard US infantry rifle—but this one had the M203 grenade launcher attachment on the underside of its barrel. “Fuckin-A!”

Rook targeted a huge metal strut that supported the portal. It had a section that had lots of electrical cables and more than the normal amount of the metal receptor plates that ran up its length. The 40 mm grenade shot out of the launcher tube and arced through the room, smashing into the concrete base of the metal upright, just as Rook fired another grenade at a second upright.

The first metal arm sheared off completely and fell inward, swallowed by the glowing ball of light. The other strut’s base exploded into fragments and the strut fell backward. Each explosion dwarfed the M2’s din and filled the air with a ball of orange flame and a column of dark smoke. The detonations startled everyone and the shooting paused, as the metal support struts collapsed. Even the dire wolves paused and cocked their alien heads, looking upward at the damage.

“I told you I’d break that fucker.” Rook said. “I—”

The sphere of energy, no longer fully contained by the metal cage, bulged suddenly forward and upward, like a water balloon that had been squeezed hard on one side. When it hit the ceiling of the massive lab room, it ate right through, as though it had encountered nothing but more air. The front portion of the roof collapsed toward the team. Great chunks of stone and strips of steel crumbled from the ceiling, now open to the sky.

Rook watched the debris falling toward them. “Aww, shit.”

SIXTY-FOUR

Somewhere

KNIGHT BRUSHED HIS arms, attempting to dust some of the midnight blue grime off his body after the long climb. Or is it orange? He and Bishop perceived this world differently, but maybe neither of them saw it right.

Bishop motioned to the suitcase nuke hanging from Knight’s back. “Where did you find it?” He was walking along the cliff’s edge toward the distant pinnacle of rock that they had agreed was their only logical destination. Knight walked alongside the big man, but away from the cliff’s edge. It had taken him hours to climb the thing and he had no desire to slip and fall off it.

“In a crater. There are craters all around. From the portals.”

“Yep. Seen ‘em.”

“Debris from Earth surrounds most of them, like a pie crust.” Knight said, pointing out to the multitude of craters they could see in the distance.

Bishop stopped walking and peered out at the collection of divots on the distant plain.

“Too far to tell,” Bishop said.

“Trust me; I’ve visited a few. I found the nuke beside one of them.”

“Seems like a lot of people had the same idea.” Bishop resumed walking along the cliff’s edge.

Knight stayed where he was and waited. Eventually, Bishop noticed Knight wasn’t walking with him and turned, a question about to form on his lips. But he saw Knight’s face, with one eyebrow raised that said Really? Think about it.

“Wait,” Bishop said, the idea formulating in his head. “That’s the nuke King and Deep Blue were supposed to place in New York?”

Knight nodded, and unslung the pack, reaching into a pocket on the exterior of the canvas sack.

“How do you know it’s theirs?” Bishop asked.

Knight produced a small iPhone from the pack and handed it to Bishop. It showed a picture of Fiona smiling on the wallpaper.

Bishop glanced at it and looked at Knight with a serious face. “Did you try this thing?”

Knight’s face lost all color. He looked down at the iPhone’s reception—no bars. Of course, there are no bars. I’m in another dimension. He realized he must have checked the reception on the thing a hundred times, even though he couldn’t remember actually doing it. Then he realized that the battery should have died ages ago, but it strangely showed two bars left on the power meter.

Knight took the device back and dropped it in the pack, shaking his head and continuing onward. “No reception.” Bishop followed him and said nothing.

They walked along the edge of the cliff for hours. Most of the time, they walked in silence. They saw no dire wolves, but after an hour, they found a crater at the top of the cliff. It was so close to the edge that they had to go around it. The circumference was only eighty feet—small compared to some of the portals they had seen, but it had a single piece of debris at its edge.

It was the front half of a police Ford Crown Victoria. The portal had sawed the vehicle in half just behind its light bar. The front windshield had been smashed in and the driver’s side door was wide open. Seeing nothing of value, they walked around the vehicle, and crater, and continued on their way.

The distant pinnacle of rock on the horizon grew larger as they trudged toward it, but it felt like an illusion to Knight, like approaching the Rocky Mountains—they keep getting bigger, but they’re still so far away. An hour after the Crown Vic, they saw another crater further away from the cliff edge to their right.

“This one must be immense,” Bishop commented.

Knight could only tell that it looked like an enormous junkyard that stretched for miles. Ragged corners of buildings were interspersed with vehicles and wreckage of every kind.

“I’m thinking we check around for a functioning set of wheels. Looks like a long way to that rock tower.” Knight changed course and made for the crater’s edge.

“Survivors?” Bishop asked.

“I’ve never seen any,” Knight told him. “Seen a lot of wreckage, but never bodies.”

They approached the edge of the debris and saw that this particular crater stretched for a few miles. It was deep and filled with rubble that had tumbled in from the outer edge. Several smaller satellite craters pocked the ground around it.

They walked the circumference of the wide circle, looking at the destruction. They saw buildings and whole slabs of highways, but nothing really recognizable or worthwhile.

When they came to the second satellite crater, Knight stopped in his tracks. Right at the edge of the small hole were two things—a Humvee with a flat tire and an open, empty box.

As Bishop pulled up next to Knight, he could see that the box was a medical organ supply cooler. It was empty. The Humvee was an ambulance variant. The front hood and front doors of the vehicle were the same as any other of the multipurpose military-utility vehicles. The back bumper at the crater’s edge had been cleaved in half by the portal when it closed. The vehicle had what looked like an olive drab camper top sporting a big red cross painted on a white square.

As Bishop walked up to the vehicle, Knight went around the back of it and returned with a spare tire that had just missed being cut in half by the portal.

“Hold on, Knight. Let’s check if it runs before we bother.” Bishop slipped into the driver’s seat and started the ignition. The engine purred to life and Bishop smiled. He killed the engine, got out and helped Knight replace the tire.

As they were finishing with the tire and stowing the jack in the back of the vehicle, Bishop pointed to an insignia on the vehicle with two red bars and a blue bar, with a yellow pattern that looked like a hockey trophy.

“What country is that?” Bishop asked.

“Mongolia,” Knight said. “I’m driving.”

Knight put the pedal to the floor, peeling the vehicle around until they faced the tower in the distance. He eased up on the gas, but kept them moving quickly.

“So where are all the people we saw being abducted?” Bishop asked, from the passenger seat, where he held one of the two MP5s at the ready.

“Got a theory, but it isn’t pleasant.” Knight had been able to take the vehicle up to 40 mph on the uneven surface of the ground without rattling them both to death.

Bishop looked at him, waiting.

“The dire wolves. Think about how fast they are. Know how many calories speed like that would burn?”

“I’m not sure,” Bishop said. “If they needed to eat that much, what do they eat when the portals aren’t open? I haven’t seen anything else living here.”

“Maybe the portals open to dimensions other than ours?” Knight offered. “Or maybe they hibernate.”

“Mmm,” Bishop said. “But they probably do eventually eat what they take, human or animal, and they’ve been doing it for quite some time, so the real question is, where are all the bones?

TWO HOURS LATER, they found the bones.

As they sped across the plain, the tower resolved and they could see that it was not a natural geological feature.

It was a tower of bones.

A twenty-foot high, mile-long wall led away from the tower toward the upper plain before it abruptly stopped, as if whoever or whatever constructed it just lost interest. But the tower was immense, rising several hundred feet high—a massive monolith of death. As they neared, Knight suggested they kill the engine and proceed on foot.

After a ten-minute jog, they stopped at the wall’s edge. It was constructed haphazardly from a mix of white human bones, and larger, clear bones which Knight assumed had come from dire wolves. Some of the longer specimens stuck out from the tower as far as a foot. They saw femurs and skulls, ribs and spinal columns. Nothing was excluded. Even the small bones of a hand were visible. Some kind of mortar that looked like concrete filled the spaces between the bones. A layer of orange dust—blue to Knight, orange to Bishop—coated everything.

Bishop grasped one the large dire wolf long bones sticking out of the structure and tested it for strength. The bone was solid. He put his weight on it, and it held him. He turned to Knight.

“Up or around?”

Knight looked up to where the tower met the twenty-foot high wall. “Up, I guess.” He tested his weight on bones that stuck out of the giant monument and quickly climbed for the spot where the wall and tower converged. Bishop followed. Twice, when Bishop put his weight on a human bone, it cracked with a dull crunching noise, leaving behind a splintered stump, which he was still able to use as a foothold.

When Knight reached the top, and peered over the wall, he turned to look back at Bishop. His face was filled with tension. Bishop reached the top a moment later and saw what had disturbed Knight.

The plains continued on the other side and ran for miles to the horizon. But the span was filled with a vast army of dire wolves. Their white see-through skin added contrast to the landscape, almost glowing. Closer to the structure of the tower and the wall, there were hundreds of small bone walls, with cells built into them like in an underground crypt. Each cell contained one or more human bodies. Some were stuffed in with their limbs folded over in grotesque ways. Others were stored in pieces, with some cells filled with only one kind of body parts—all feet or all heads.

Thousands of people.

Not one of them living.

And the bodies didn’t seem to be decaying. Bishop noticed an absolute lack of insects like flies that would normally be buzzing and swarming around such a charnel house. Nor, could he smell the dead.

They’re being stored, he thought. It’s like a giant pantry full of human corpses.

Near the end of the bone wall that ran a mile away from the tower, a one-hundred-foot tall portal stretched into the sky. The army of dire wolves stood a half mile away from the tower, and equally far from the portal. They weren’t lined up in rows and columns like a human army might be, but it was clear to Bishop that they were ready to begin their fight.

Not far from the portal, a wide tunnel burrowed down into the soil—eighty feet wide and just as tall. A yawning cavity in the ground.

“That portal isn’t flickering.” Bishop said.

Knight looked at the scene and shook his head. “What’s that Elmer Fudd says?”

“I’m hunting wabbits,” Bishop said, enunciating the words, but not doing a full on impression.

“The other one.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Bishop said.

“That’s the one,” Knight said. “What are they all waiting for?”

Bishop put his hand on Knight’s head and turned him toward the cave in front of the portal. “They’re waiting for that.”

A massive form rose from the depths.

Knight had been trying to deal with the horror of this place through joking, but all trace humor fled his body as fast as the blood from his face.

“Let’s move,” Bishop said.

“Move where?”

Bishop motioned to the Humvee. “Let’s take a ride. See if we can’t lead the charge.”

“I don’t know if I love or hate the way you think,” Knight said, starting to climb down. “No, wait. I hate it. I definitely hate it.”

SIXTY-FIVE

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0315 Hrs

QUEEN DOVE TO the side as wreckage rained down around her. She rolled on the floor and came up in a firing stance, ready to fight, but found herself in a cloud of choking dust and grit. It would have been the perfect time to take down all the dire wolves. She figured they were all frozen, stock still, waiting for the airborne particulates to clear, so they could see their prey.

But Queen couldn’t see them either. All the shooting had stopped as the giant slabs of masonry fell with explosive force, shattering on the floor. She scanned the area around her and found Black Six lying face down, his torso and upper legs pinned under a slab of the massive roof. She lay down on the floor, put her feet against the stone and prepared to pull the man out by his legs. She pulled and he came free easily. When she looked down, she saw that she had freed only the man’s legs, from the upper thigh down. The rest of him was crushed under the rock slab.

Man down, she thought, but there wasn’t anything she could do.

She dropped his legs, growled, stood and looked for something on which to vent her anger.

Sand and grit scratched her eyes. She pawed at it with a filthy, muck-coated hand. As the cloud began to clear, she could see the snowy sky above through the fractured, opened roof. The portal, which was not quite a sphere anymore, stretched up through the roof. Gunfire erupted again as those still living found targets in the murky air.

A shift in the dusty air alerted her to the presence of a dire wolf. She turned and found it right behind her, frozen in its macabre statue-like stance. Like a street-performing human statue. She swept the curve-bladed Kurkri from the sheath on her hip, slicing the stationary creature’s head off in one vicious swipe. The body strangely stayed erect on its feet as the head rolled to a stop next to gray rubble. The headless corpse disturbed her, so she kicked it in the chest and the carcass toppled over.

She could see the man that wore the earmuffs over by the now inactive M2. A six-foot tall spire of steel I-beam had killed him, impaling him through his chest. Falling wreckage had bent the M2’s barrel like a paper clip. Two of the white-armored troopers were hunkered down behind another pile of stones, firing at the dire wolves as they slowly emerged from the gloom, although most still stood motionless, waiting for the air to clear. Queen raised her MP5 and loosed a barrage of bullets toward every creature-statue she could see.

She held the trigger down as snow fell into the expansive room. She saw King helping Deep Blue remove his cracked black helmet. Beck was helping Asya up.

She lingered on Asya. The woman looked incredibly familiar, but Queen couldn’t put her finger on why. The way she fought. The way she moved. The look in her eyes, or her eyes themselves. The two women moved over to Deep Blue and King, and the idea that had been scratching at the back of Queen’s head since she had met the Russian woman burst into her frontal consciousness.

Son of a bitch. I know who you are, lady.

She didn’t see Rook anywhere, until she heard him, and his voice distracted her from her new revelation about Asya. He stood across the room, covered in dusty grime.

“Like it hasn’t been a bad enough day,” Rook shouted. “I had to drop the friggin’ ceiling on everyone. Goddamned, buck-toothed, white marshmallow lookin’ cocksuckers!” He sprayed bullets from the M-16, mowing down the stationary dire wolves, dropping three of them before his rifle ran out of ammunition. “Bastards!” He dropped the M-16, and charged toward the remaining six dire wolves that stood still.

“Rook,” King called out.

Rook ignored him, pounding forward. He drew a Browning pistol he must have picked up during the fight. He walked right up to the first dire wolf, placed the weapon up to the creature’s head at a distance of no more than two inches, and fired. The far side of the dire wolf’s white head exploded outward. Rook headed for the next creature. It turned toward him as he got close, but he still shot it from point-blank distance, before it had time to react.

“Rook!” King called out again. Rook ignored the call as he walked up to another dire wolf and executed it. The creature’s body jolted from the shot and flopped onto a pile of dirt. “Rook!”

Then King called out again, and Queen and Deep Blue lent their voices to the call.

“ROOK!”

ROOK ANGRILY TURNED to face the team by the open hangar doors across the wreckage-strewn floor. “For the love of—What? What do you want?”

Deep Blue, King, Queen, Asya, the woman Rook knew as a ‘Pawn’ from a previous mission—now called Black Zero—and three of the soldiers in the white armor all stood still. Only some of them had their mouths hanging open, but each and every one of them was looking at Rook.

No, Rook thought. Not at me.

Above me.

Rook spun around. A ten-foot tall mound of white goo, like a massive clump of melted Gozer the Gozerian Stay Puft marshmallow, stood in front of the portal. When a stiff breeze carried away the smoke, he saw it wasn’t goo at all.

It was loose skin.

On a foot.

The size of an SUV.

The ridges at the base of the mound were not ridges, but toes. Three thick digits, each the size of a man, coiled and twitched, as though in anticipation.

Rook stepped backward, looking up, up and further up as he moved.

The ten-foot-tall foot connected to a powerful leg that went another twenty feet up before bending at a knee, and disappearing into the light.

Rook stumbled backward over some rubble and went down on his ass.

Above the backward-bending leg, a gigantic chest appeared. Ten-foot-tall cloudy-skinned sacks dangled from the torso like pendulous breasts. Two. Then four. Then six. They kept coming. Inside each were dire wolves in different stages of growth, floating in mottled white and red fluid.

The room shook as the monster took a step forward, bringing a second leg through the portal. The sacks swayed back and forth, the fluid inside them gurgling. Then the head came through.

In many ways, it resembled the smaller dire wolves. The rounded snout held a flat nose just above a wide, curving mouth full of shovel-sized, transparent teeth. Its round chameleon eyes, each the diameter of a hula-hoop, twitched back and forth, taking in the entire room as they swiveled independently of each other. But the skin, while transparent, hung in loose folds that warbled and swayed. And while quasi transparent, it also glistened, like it was covered in millions of tiny scales.

The giant’s brain, which was visible beneath the clear skin and skull, was the size of a VW Bug, but it looked better formed than the sponge-like dire wolf brains. And it moved, pulsing inside the head, like a heart.

As the top of the torso slid out of the portal, a pair of shorter arms emerged. They were connected to the body below the head, but set back. The fifteen-foot-long limbs resembled Popeye’s arms, thin at the top, but with muscular forearms. A three-fingered hand tipped each arm.

When a third leg stepped into view, Rook had seen enough and for the first time in his life, he tried to speak and found himself speechless.

SIXTY-SIX

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0330 Hrs

KING WATCHED AS a fourth massive foot stepped out of the portal, this one crushing a dead dire wolf under foot. He’d seen a lot—the Hydra reborn, living stone giants, man-eating praying mantises—but this...this put them all to shame. At eighty feet tall, it was by far their largest adversary, but it was also just plain nasty.

Rook scrambled backward on the floor over the rubble with his hands and feet, shoving to gain some distance from the titanic creature. “Thing is fugly!” He turned and climbed to his feet, racing across the room to the others.

Deep Blue, King, Carrack, and the remaining three White team soldiers all heard Lewis Aleman’s voice over their earpieces. He was seated back on the Persephone, outside the lab. “I’ve lost visual contact. Not sure what’s going on inside. Be advised. I’ve done linguistic analysis on the name you saw above the hangar doors outside the place. Gleipnir. It was a mystical cord used to capture Fenrir, a giant wolf in Norse mythology. Not sure how much that helps, but watch out for giant wolves I guess.”

Deep Blue touch activated his microphone and the others heard his reply, “Nice to know, Lew. Better late than never, I guess. See what else you can find on Fenrir. Like how to kill it.”

“Seriously? Is now the best time for—oh shit. Really?”

“Well, it’s not a wolf,” King said. “But it’s off its leash for sure.”

“Somebody please shoot it,” Rook said.

King opened fire on the creature with an MP5. The bullets ripped a line into the creature’s chest. It raised its head, below which hung a white, fleshy waddle.

It tilted the head back.

The waddle expanded.

And it howled.

The sound shook the facility’s walls. Ceiling fragments rained down, crashing into Beck and the Russian woman. The floor shook like a 7.7 earthquake, knocking people off their feet. Some of the team fell to their knees in abject terror. Those who had yet to deal with the roar of the dire wolves were unprepared for the effect.

King remained unaffected, as he had been the last time, with the roars of the dire wolves in Chicago and New York. Queen had mastered battling the effect with her rage, so Fenrir’s roar only made her feel weak. The men in the white armor—Carrack, White One, White Three and White Five—were shielded by the audio dampeners in their helmets. They each opened fire on the gargantuan creature. Deep Blue wasn’t wearing his helmet and he fell to the floor in a fetal position. The roar affected Rook, too. He fell to a sitting position, curled into a ball on the floor and rocked back and forth.

King fired again at the creature, this time aiming up near the ceiling of the huge room, at the giant beast’s head. The White team kept shooting and Queen fired at the narrowest parts of the creature’s leg in a concentrated burst, sending globs of fish-like meat spinning off in an arc from the limb. The wounds looked large until King looked at them in context. They were like scrapes to the giant. Barely noticeable, if at all.

As bullets ripped into the beast’s hide, a meaty, salty scent wafted across the room, adding to the electrified stench of the portal and the choking dust from the roof collapse. This new smell made King’s stomach turn. He wondered if they had hit a weird gland on the creature.

Then he noticed that the shooting had stopped. He looked behind him to see Queen standing calmly next to four of the white armored men, all of them with their weapons lowered. He couldn’t see Beck anywhere. The woman that had been with Rook looked to be okay, as she staggered to her feet from under fallen debris. Deep Blue and Rook were out of it. He didn’t see Black Six either.

He looked up at the giant and saw that one of its eyes was locked on him, the other on Rook’s friend—the only two still with it.

“What the hell?” King was about to ask why no one was doing anything, but instead, Fenrir spoke.

In his head.

Why are you here, children of Adoon?

Adoon? King wondered.

Does it mean, children of Adam? King knew that in the Bible, human men are sometimes referred to as “sons of Adam.” So men and women are “the children of Adam.” But Adoon? That was a new one. And the question was irrelevant. This was his planet.

“Why are you here?” King asked.

The time of Ragnarök has come. The devouring has begun anew.

“You’ve come to Earth before?” King asked. He was curious, but he was really just hoping someone would snap out it and launch an RPG down the monster’s throat.

The giant head swiveled, but the eye locked onto him never moved. You know this already.

Is it reading my mind? King wondered, but then decided against it because he didn’t know that already.

Rook’s friend took a bold step forward and shouted with a thick Russian accent. “We will stop you!”

King felt the thing’s humor at this comment, though he did not hear a laugh, audibly or in his mind.

This world does not belong to you, children of Adoon. The fracture between worlds will remain open. Leave now...or—

“I’m not going anywhere,” King interrupted.

The giant eye watching him shifted to the side, landing on Queen. She turned toward King and raised her weapon.

She’s being controlled!

King dove to the floor, rolling behind rubble as she fired at his position.

Asya stood wearily, but when the white-armored men leveled their weapons at her, she reacted quickly, firing two shots from her handgun. She crouched behind a 12-foot slab of the ceiling propped up at an angle.

King stood and looked to where Queen had been, but the woman had abandoned the gun and was rushing him from the side. He rolled out of the way to avoid a devastating kick that would have knocked him down, although he doubted it would have injured him through the body armor. Few people could match Queen in a hand-to-hand brawl, but the armor would help. He leapt and swung his leg as he went, aiming his shin for Queen’s head. She nimbly ducked at the last second and King cleared her, landing in a crouch. He turned and swept his leg, catching her by surprise and sending her flying.

He looked across to see the Russian, the only other person around that wasn’t affected by the fear effects of the roar or the mind control. She leaped clear over Carrack as he lunged at her in his body armor. She landed in a crouch, just like King had done, and spun in a 180-degree arc, sweeping her leg out to catch Carrack off guard. The man toppled from the impact of her leg behind his knees.

King was stunned. The move wasn’t part of a martial art or something he’d been trained to do. It was a part of his natural fighting style. He wondered if the woman had some kind of physical eidetic memory, and had copied his every move, but then she rolled backward and sprang from her feet to a twisting side kick that connected hard with the back of Carrack’s helmet. King had never seen such a strike, and he certainly couldn’t do it himself.

Distracted by Asya, King almost got clobbered as Queen struck again. If it hadn’t been for the armor and the fact that he turned at the last second, she might have done some serious damage with the combination of strikes she landed.

Her fists hit his chest repeatedly in a pattern he recognized from Queen’s barehanded fighting style. She has her instincts and practiced moves, but she isn’t thinking, or she’d be attacking my face. He also noticed that one of her hands was all swollen and red, but she was using it as if it were uninjured. That’s gonna hurt like a bastard, later on.

He struck out hard at Queen’s midsection and she pivoted away as he knew she would. But if she had complete command of her senses, she would have been far more aware of her surroundings.

She wasn’t.

The woman planted a foot backward, expecting level ground. What she got was a jumble of metal wreckage that had fallen from the cage struts around the portal. Her foot landed badly and the ankle buckled. As she turned to see what happened, while falling, King struck hard with the side of his hand to Queen’s neck, knocking the merciless combatant to the ground. He was grateful he wasn’t fighting her with all of her senses intact, or he might not have survived the encounter.

King removed two of the grenades from the bandolier he wore across his chest, and rolled behind a pile of rubble. He came up next to Rook. The man’s eyes were glazed and he slowly rocked on the floor. King set one of the grenades down and slapped Rook’s face. “Rook,” he hissed. “Snap out of it. Rook!” He slapped hard a second time and the glazed look on Rook’s face dissipated.

Rook looked startled and his eyes darted around the room, confused. When his eyes landed on King, they cleared and his face moved from surprise and fear to serious. “What the—”

“Shh,” King silenced him. “Time to blow some shit up.”

SIXTY-SEVEN

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0345 Hrs

KING AND ROOK stood from behind their rubble barrier, each with two grenades in hand. One of the White security men, who had already been in mid-leap, immediately tackled Rook. The two bodies sailed past King, but he kept his focus on his target—the colossal monstrosity, whose body still had not fully emerged from the glowing portal. He had removed the safety clips behind the rubble. Now, he pulled the pins for both grenades and let the spoons fly. He counted two seconds and then threw both grenades across the room where they landed near Fenrir’s massive feet. The first to land bounced and disappeared in a crevice, in a pile of white stone rubble. The second landed close to a foot.

Both devices detonated, the first grenade sending up a shower of flame and stone debris. The other grenade exploded near Fenrir’s leg and the creature wailed. When the initial blast of churning black smoke from the explosion cleared, King could see that Fenrir had lost the outermost toe off the foot.

One toe. We’re gonna need a bigger explosion.

Then another of the White security men was firing at him. Bullets ripped into the rubble near his legs and King fell over backward in surprise. He tried to turn it into a roll, but found himself stuck to some jagged pieces of rubble that clung to his armor like oversized Velcro hooks. No matter which way he moved, the armor would not let him get up. He reached his hand under the plating on his left side and found the buckles. He unclasped them and the chest plate was free to hinge open on his left side. He slithered out of the chest and back armor. The lower abdomen and sleeves of armor plating attached to a black neoprene-like suit woven through with impact resistant fabric. Those parts of the armor came with him as he slid out of the chest plate. He stood up and turned to find a jagged piece of metal skewering the back plate of the armor. He slipped his hand behind his back along the neoprene suit and felt a small tear in the suit, but the skin under it was not ruptured. The suit had saved his life. The piece of metal piercing his armor’s back plate would have gone through his heart.

King looked up to see Rook wrestling with the White team member. He raced over to help, but the White soldier that had shot at him was now plowing toward him. He dodged to the side, running up a small hill of rubble, then spun around and jump-kicked at the man’s head. Although the soldier wore the armored helmet, King hoped the kick would at least knock the man unconscious. But the soldier ducked the kick.

As King flew over the man, he saw Beck was up and duking it out against Matt Carrack. And the Russian still fought one of the other White security men. She leapt nimbly and gracefully, while her opponent bull-rushed her.

King landed on his feet, glancing at the woman. She looked incredibly familiar to him. He couldn’t understand exactly why. He had never met her.

The woman slipped up the soldier’s back, wrapping her legs around his upper chest, then her hands quickly found the buckles on his helmet and pulled it off. King saw that it was White Five, a quiet man with blonde hair and an always serious face. Five threw himself over backward with the hope of crushing her with his weight. She unwrapped her legs from his chest, and cartwheeled away from the impact of his body. She arrested her spin, reversed and leapt. A second after White Five hit the floor, her hand chopped at his neck. Then she was up and away.

The neck strike was the same he’d used on Queen.

He tried to remember where he’d learned the move, but couldn’t.

King heard Rook growling behind him and turned to see his friend hefting a massive slab of concrete and dropping it on the armored chest of his opponent. The armored man struggled but didn’t have the leverage or the abdominal muscles to get up from under the slab. Then Rook sat down heavily on top of the slab, adding his 200 pounds of muscle.

King almost laughed.

Then he heard a scream. He looked behind him. Fenrir had stepped further into the room, and as King turned, a giant three-fingered hand swept across the floor, scooping up one of the still-helmeted White security soldiers and flinging him against the wall of the room—over sixty feet up. Then the man’s armored body plunged to the floor, crashing hard again. King hoped the body armor could withstand such blows.

Fenrir stepped further into the room, revealing two more legs and its hind quarters, a stubby lump of loose flesh stained with defecation. Nearly fifty liquid-filled sacks dangled from its body. Some of the creatures inside were waking up, twisting and clawing. With a gust of viscous liquid, one of the pouches ruptured, disgorging a fresh dire wolf onto the battlefield. The creature landed on all fours, shook the fluid away like a wet dog and sprang into action, joining the fray.

King twisted just in time to avoid yet another strike. The White soldier returned, launching himself at King. Up close, King could see a small Chess Piece insignia of a King on the man’s shoulder plating with a number 1 in the center. It was a quick homemade job, but King appreciated the sentiment anyway. White One again ran at King, all power and no finesse. King ducked a swinging punch and came up behind the man, his hand quickly sliding to White One’s neck and the helmet buckle restraints. He only got one before the man turned and kicked. King caught the kick in the stomach. It had been aimed at King’s unprotected chest, but he diverted the blow with his forearms, driving it down to the armor plating covering his lower body. The kick still had enough force to drive King backward, but not enough to knock him down.

Beck was still battling Matt Carrack—her opposite number with the callsign of White Zero—and their battle shifted closer to King’s. She was holding her own, but both combatants looked exhausted to King.

White One again rushed at King, who threw himself forward into the man’s chest. He wrapped an arm around White One’s middle and threw his other hand to the back of the neck, getting the second clasp. As they fell, King wrenched the helmet free, and still gripping it, swung his arm back at the man’s head, smashing the helmet against his head. The man fell and King worried that he might have hit the soldier too hard. He didn’t want to kill him—he was being controlled. King reached down and pulled off his armored glove. He reached for the man’s neck, checking for a pulse.

Before he could, a roar tore through the air, but it sounded nothing like Fenrir, or any of the dire wolves. It didn’t even sound organic.

Two glowing eyes emerged from the portal, followed by a white, boxy creature.

Not a creature, King realized as the shape became clear. A Humvee!

The battered vehicle, covered in white, gelatinous gore, skidded to a stop, flinging a dead dire wolf from its hood. Another dead dire wolf, this one missing it’s lower half, was jammed into the front wheel well. A coil of clear intestines slid down the driver’s side door. The thing looked like it had plowed through an army of the things.

The door flung open, sending the guts to the floor.

Bishop, still wearing his body armor, but no helmet, stood from the vehicle looking like a warrior from some other world. He looked down, saw a grenade launcher one of the White team had dropped and bent to pick it up.

Knight slid out behind him. “Punch line, Bishop. You can’t make an entrance like that and not have a punch line.” When his boots hit the rubble covered concrete floor, Knight didn’t miss a beat. He ran across the room in what appeared to be a loin cloth. His hair was back in a ponytail and whipped around him as he ran. He was covered in white dust. As he ran, he scooped up a discarded rifle.

Despite Knight and Bishop’s sudden arrival being a shock, King recovered quickly enough to notice a familiar shape strapped to Knight’s back.

It can’t be...

Fenrir looked down at the disturbance in time to see Bishop fire a 40 mm grenade right up at her belly, where a curtain of still-growing dire wolves hung in their liquid-filled sacks.

Before the first grenade had hit, Bishop fired another at her ass.

SIXTY-EIGHT

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0400 Hrs

THE EXPLOSION WAS tremendous. The shockwave sent Bishop flying backward into the portal, where he disappeared through the bulging, straining wall of brilliant light. Flames leapt up from Fenrir’s gut, but were quickly extinguished as several of the sacks burst, spilling their fluids and partially formed young to the floor. Fenrir let out an anguished roar that could have been fueled by pain or anger of the loss of her children. Its big body tensed and closed what looked like several large pores running along its flanks.

From one side of the giant room, away from the fight, a door opened and several bewildered people in lab coats with blonde hair ran out and raced for the small door that led outside the lab. Wind and snow still swept into the chamber from the ruined ceiling and the open hangar doors that Fenrir had been heading for, before Bishop’s grenade attack.

Knight ran to the metal stairwell with the FN-SCAR rifle he found and raced up the steps. Queen stood from where she had lain, rubbing her neck and squinting hard, as if she had a vicious headache. Carrack stopped fighting Beck, and looked around at the chaos around him. Beck recognized that Carrack was no longer under control. She moved away and toward the hangar door, looking for another weapon in the ruins. Deep Blue stood up from behind a long steel I-beam and looked wobbly on his feet.

King saw all of it happening around him. He threw another grenade at Fenrir’s front feet—his last—then ran to join Beck and look for another weapon.

Rook was standing, still favoring one shoulder, but he had opened fire on the creature with an MP5 dropped by one of the White team. He focused his fire on Fenrir’s flattened pug nose, and as the creature moved its head away, Rook followed it with the stream of bullets. The MP5 was equipped with a Beta C-Mag—the cartridge looked like two flat drums on either side of the weapon’s barrel. It held 100 rounds of ammunition, and Rook had found more of them at his feet in a black nylon bag next to Reggie’s impaled body. He kept the stream of fire sizzling through the air and then was joined by FN-SCAR fire from the stairs as Knight climbed, and by more MP5 fire, from Queen.

Bishop stepped out of the portal again, only this time, he backed into the room. After another step backward, he was fully into the room, backing toward Fenrir and firing his rifle into the portal, sweeping the barrel left and right.

Then they came.

Dire wolf after dire wolf poured out of the opening toward Bishop. The first wave of them crashed into him, sending him flying toward Fenrir, where his armored body slammed into Fenrir’s second left-side leg, just as it lifted from the floor and stepped forward. It was like getting hit by a bus. The impact launched him back into the room. He hit the floor hard and slid for a few feet before coming to a stop. He didn’t get up.

King saw twenty, then thirty, then forty of the creatures enter the room, some so eager that they climbed over each other. Fenrir had recovered from its wounds, or was simply ignoring the thirteen ruptured sacks hanging from its underside like popped balloons. It turned its slathering jaws toward the weapons that were barking at it, spitting bullets like vicious hornet stings. Carrack, Beck and Deep Blue had all added their weapons fire to the melee, but even added to Queen’s, Rook’s and Knight’s fire, they were not able to hold back the tide of oncoming dire wolves.

King looked up at Knight and the pack sitting next to him. He whistled to the man through his fingers and shouted, “Knight!”

Between shots, Knight glanced down. King pointed to the pack. Knight pushed it over the side without hesitation. King bent his knees and snatched the heavy bundle from the air, squatting to absorb the impact. He opened it up to confirm its contents.

The suitcase nuke. His suitcase nuke.

As the melee came closer, King did the only thing he could think of.

He turned and ran.

SIXTY-NINE

Aboard the Persephone, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0415 Hrs

THE HUGE FLYING-WING aircraft settled gently in the snow, the thrusters of the engines blasting the white flakes in all directions, clearing a landing spot for itself.

Lewis Aleman sat in the computer room with the makeshift desk and chairs, frantically searching for more information about portals, alternate dimensions, Fenrir and dire wolves, as were Sara Fogg, George Pierce and Black Five back in New Hampshire. He could feed anything they found to Deep Blue over the earbud communicator in their leader’s ear.

“So, we’re thinking that this Fenrir thing might be secreting scent out of glands. The scent could carry pheromones, and that would explain the control over some of the team. Look for something that looks like a sphincter, or large pore. If you could…”

Deep Blue cut him off. “Timing, Lewis, timing. I think that problem is solved for now.” Aleman could hear tons of background noise on the line. He knew Deep Blue’s helmet was off, but at the moment, his anonymity wasn’t a concern. “We’re seeing increasing numbers of dire wolves, too, and we’re down several men. We need a way to stop these things and to kill the portal. We might have to go with your plan for the Crescent.”

“Working on it.”

“I know,” Deep Blue said. “But work faster.” He clicked off and Aleman’s earpiece went quiet.

Aleman shouted in surprise as the metal door to the room slammed open.

King stood in the doorway, dirty, bloody and missing the top portion of his armor. He was out of breath from his sprint through the snow drifts to the Persephone.

When he spoke, his voice sounded like a growl. “I need you to do exactly as I say.”

That’s when Aleman noticed the suitcase nuke clutched under King’s arm.

SEVENTY

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0430 Hrs

KNIGHT HAD A bird’s eye view of the entire conflict. He still didn’t feel like himself after his ordeal on the other side of the portal. His brain felt loose, his thoughts all erratic. He had a hard time remembering what had happened in all the time he was on the other side. But he and Bishop were able to agree that Knight must either have been on the other side for much longer—and they realized time worked differently on that side—or else his body had aged at an accelerated rate in the short span of time he was there. Either way, Knight was a few years older now.

Although strangely, Bishop wasn’t.

According to the big Iranian American, they had both been on the other side for about the same amount of time—Bishop having entered a portal on a rope like Tarzan just moments after Knight had been carried through the one on Westminster bridge. In the end they came to agree that time had worked differently for each of them, either because they had gone through different portals, or because Knight spent most of his time on the lower plane while Bishop entered the other world atop the cliff. Knight knew that time ran slower the further you got from Earth’s surface. You needed an atomic watch to see the difference, but the effect might be exaggerated in Fenrir’s dimension.

What Knight hadn’t told Bishop was that, when they met at the top of the cliff, Bishop had been covered in dried white dire wolf blood. It covered his armored chest and the side of his face. Bishop told him about his encounter with the dire wolf, that he’d hallucinated his worst fear—becoming a Regen once more, but Knight suspected the man had actually attacked, killed and eaten a dire wolf. Having personally survived Bishop as a Regen, it was a nightmare neither man wanted to think about, so Knight didn’t. He put the memory out of his mind with no intention of ever telling Bishop.

A burst of gunfire brought him back to the battle.

Knight focused on the chaos below him. Deep Blue fired on leaping dire wolves. Queen was back to her preferred method of up-close devastation with a wickedly curved blade, moving with a display of predatory violence that put the dire wolves to shame. Carrack, Beck and Rook were all near each other, unleashing a barrage of bullets at the giant creature’s sack-covered chest, which didn’t seem to hurt it as much as distract it.

In a perfect sniping position, he focused on the largest target, the behemoth. He considered the chest, but rupturing the hanging wombs wasn’t doing any real damage. Instead, he targeted the eyes, thinking if he couldn’t kill the gigantic animal, he could at least handicap it.

He lay on the metal catwalk and supported the FN-SCAR under the barrel and sighted one of the creature’s round eyes. The SCAR was a Belgian rifle with an effective range of about 1200 feet. He was less than a hundred feet from the beast. Of course, the monster was eighty feet tall; it would be an easy target from any distance.

He fired twice into the beast’s left eye and the creature roared, shaking the foundations of the underground lab. The metal catwalk rattled, shaking Knight to the point where he wondered if the whole catwalk system might come down.

The team continued their assault on Fenrir. It struck out wildly, unaware of where the bullet strike to its eye had originated. Its torso spun from side to side, swinging its arms and flailing the dangling sacks so hard that some burst open, dropping dire wolves sixty feet to their deaths. The giant snapped its tremendous jaws at the soldiers on the ground and pounded its feet, trying to crush them.

Knight waited until the creature turned again to snap toward Rook’s position. Rook ran out of the way and leapt over a pile of rock and sand, sliding down the other side. The beast’s head lunged at Rook, and then swung back to snarl at Anna Beck—Knight’s girlfriend—as she fired on the creature from behind, helping Bishop to his feet with her other hand. He was once again firing at the newly arriving dire wolves as they entered the fray through the portal.

The right eye stayed frustratingly out of Knight’s view, so he took a few more shots at the already damaged and closed-over left eye.

Then he heard a new kind of roar. This one was loud and higher pitched, more like a whine.

A mechanical whine.

When Knight looked to the hangar doors, he understood that he didn’t need to hit the creature’s right eye. King was back, and he was going to hit the eye—and everything else.

SEVENTY-ONE

Outside the Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0445 Hrs

THE CRESCENT, CHESS Team’s personal stealth, troop transport ship, looked like a giant croissant that had gone gray and black from mold. Radar-reflective material covered the ship from one tip of its half-moon shape across 80 feet of breadth to its other tip. The giant, flat plane could carry 25,000 pounds of load and travel at above Mach 2. Its newly designed VTOL engines could run in a silent stealth mode, which sounded like little more than a strong wind with an undercurrent of high-pitched metallic squeal. When the engines were running without the stealth technology, the massive engines roared like the sound of twelve 747 jumbo jets. It cost 500 million dollars, not counting the billions in research and development for the prototype.

Today, Jack Sigler, the man known as King, intended to crash it.

He was flying the huge plane alone. The pilots wanted to come with him on his suicide mission, but he hadn’t allowed it. He had been taking flying lessons, and had been at the helm of the Crescent in the air and on takeoff. He had yet to land the plane, but for today’s exercise, that wouldn’t matter.

Sitting on the co-pilot’s seat and strapped in with a seatbelt was the suitcase nuke King had lost in Manhattan. The goal was to get the bomb through a portal and close the portal before the timer detonated. If for some reason the portal couldn’t be closed—or the device didn’t make it into a portal, there was the remote control he held in his hand.

King looked at the device.

He pictured Sara. Her sarcastic smile. Her sharp eyes. He could hear her voice, whispering in his ear, but he didn’t like the words. Do it Jack, you have no choice.

I have a daughter, he thought. I can’t.

Fiona came into his thoughts like a specter, her voice, high and raspy, sounded like a breeze. It’s you or the world, daddy.

King knew the words were his own thoughts, imagining what he thought they might say, after weeping, shouting and threatening to kill him themselves. It had to be done. They would understand that.

The remote clattered to the floor where King threw it.

“Love you guys,” he whispered, then focused on aiming the world’s largest boomerang.

King had swept the sickle-shaped transport out over the Norwegian Sea, before bringing it back toward his target—the open hangar doors on the side of the lab. He could see how cleverly the facility had been built into the landscape, using the night vision features built into the cockpit of the vehicle. The doors were hidden from pretty much everything except a direct approach from the sea—and this far north along the Norwegian coast was well off the standard shipping lanes. The timing for this stunt would be crucial. He sped up on approach and then slowed just as he was reaching the open doors, carefully adjusting his aim.

He tightened the seatbelt strap crisscrossing over his chest and prayed the high tech crash gear did its job.

The plane slipped through the massive open hanger.

Then everything happened at once.

Fenrir turned to the hangar doors and saw the fast-approaching black plane. The monster opened its gaping mouth wide to howl.

King hit the gas.

The Crescent rammed into the creature’s open mouth, snapping off its mighty lower jaw and plowing into the beast’s flaccid-skinned chest. The thrust from the plane knocked the giant back as it flailed in pain. The Crescent’s engines roared, pushing the giant back and together, they slipped through the portal.

KING OPENED HIS eyes to a world of white.

He was still alive, but where? He reached out a hand and found the world around him was pliable, like a cushion...or an air bag. King was surrounded on all sides by nylon airbags designed to protect pilots from controlled crashes. While his crash wasn’t exactly controlled, he wasn’t moving at Mach 2, either.

King drew a pocket knife, flipped it open and stabbed at the airbags. One by one, the bags popped and deflated. King’s head spun as he fumbled with the seatbelt. His chest ached. Broken ribs, he thought. Could have been worse.

He looked at the seat next to him. The suitcase nuke was still in place, held tight by the belts.

Still might work.

King flinched when a pair of hands reached around him.

“Slow down, killer,” Rook said and quickly unbuckled his teammate.

“Rook, what are you doing here?”

“Same thing as you,” Rook said. “Playing the big hero so maybe I can get laid tonight.”

King laughed, but groaned as his chest filled with pain. “Seri-ously.”

“Seriously?” Rook said. “I lost a lot of men in Siberia. I ain’t losing you, too.”

King looked in Rook’s cool blue eyes and nodded. “Let’s go.”

Rook helped King through the back of the plane, which seemed to be largely in one piece. They stumbled when the Crescent shifted underfoot.

“FYI, that Fenrir bitch is beneath us.”

A shadow shifted at the back of the plane, where the loading ramp was bent open.

“Shit,” Rook said, then led King to a chair. “Stay,” he ordered like a dog trainer. He ran into the plane’s armory and returned a moment later carrying two chrome Desert Eagle magnum handguns. He kissed them one at a time. “I’ve missed you, girls.”

He handed one to King and walking as one with Rook helping to support King’s weight, they made for the back of the plane. The Magnums only held seven rounds each, but the .50 caliber bullets would take a dire wolf’s head clean off. Just about any hit would be a kill shot. And Rook had four spare magazines in his pocket.

As they exited the plane, King raised his gun and fired. The bullet struck a waiting dire wolf’s shoulder removing the arm and dropping the beast. It wasn’t dead, but it would be soon.

They moved as one, leaving the plane, scrambling over Fenrir’s squishy body, which was slick with slime from its burst wombs. They ran, and fired, and scrambled and fired some more until their bullets ran out. Both reloaded fast, fired twice more each and then ducked into the brilliant portal, leaving the other world, which Rook had seen in shades of green and King in white, behind.

They emerged on the other side, but King didn’t feel safe.

The nuke he’d left behind would detonate in four minutes.

SEVENTY-TWO

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0450 Hrs

QUEEN SIGHED WITH relief when Rook and King hobbled out of the portal. She was covered in cuts and scrapes, her ankle was twisted, maybe broken. Her hand was swollen like a red balloon, she was coated in dried dire wolf blood and secretions and she could only move by hopping on her unaffected foot, but she still laid down fire on the dire wolf army that turned toward Rook and King as they separated.

Beck had seen the situation and moved over to help support her and share the last of her ammunition—two normal-sized curved 32 round magazines. Together, they covered their teammates as the men scrambled toward them.

Bishop moved to the high ground of the metal stairs in the corner of the giant room and fired down on dire wolves. A pile of ten of the creatures lay dead below the landing where he stood; an effective barricade.

Rook and King split up. King held his chest, but seemed to be recovering from whatever wound had slowed him down. Rook caught Queen’s eyes and pointed to Bishop. “To the stairs,” he called.

When he saw Queen take a limping step, he shot the leg off a dire wolf and ran to her aid. But instead of helping her run, as he had King, he scooped her over his shoulder and carried her.

“Rook!” she shouted angrily.

“I’ll run, you shoot!” he replied. “We’re running out of time!”

Queen’s body shook with every step, but she managed to trace a line of bullets across the chest of a dire wolf pounding toward them.

“Time for what?” she asked.

ACROSS THE ROOM, Deep Blue ran to meet King. The Russian came over to them from behind her barricade of dire wolf corpses, now coated in thick white blood.

“Seriously, Jack? My 500-million-dollar stealth plane? You couldn’t come up with a better plan than that?” Deep Blue fired his MP5 twice, hitting dire wolves that ran at them. His face showed only concentration as he focused on hitting his targets.

King couldn’t tell whether the former President of the United States was joking with him or really upset, but decided he didn’t care.

“It worked. We need to find a way to shut down the portal. Knight found the suitcase nuke on the other side and brought it back. I remembered to arm it this time. Probably would be good if we could shut down that portal before it goes off in…” King checked his digital watch, “three minutes.”

“We need to completely destroy the containment apparatus. The metal arms that Rook blew up before—” Deep Blue began. He fired another volley of bullets at the oncoming dire wolves and his weapon was empty.

“That didn’t work out so well last time,” King said, pulling out a new magazine of 9 mm bullets from one of the Velcro attachments on his suit and handing it to the man.

“Ale says Rook was on the right track. We need to get them all—not just the two. And then cut the power.”

“Wait,” the Russian woman spoke up. “I have seen it. A power relay.”

Both Deep Blue and King turned to her and at the same time said, “Where?”

“Follow me. I saw it on a video camera. There was a map.”

“Go with her,” Deep Blue ordered. “We’ll take care of the cage.”

The woman circled around the side of the energy ball, moving along the wall, back behind the side of the sphere where the dire wolves were still coming through. King followed her, while Deep Blue provided cover fire.

ONCE KING AND the woman were out of his sight around the portal, Deep Blue crossed in front of the open hangar door to the other side of the room and made for the stairwell. Bishop, Rook, Queen and Beck were on the third flight of steps, firing on any dire wolves that came near. Knight offered cover fire from his perch in the sky.

Are they all that’s left?

Deep Blue needed the cover fire. He ran out of bullets halfway to the stairs. Each of the four soldiers on the stairs turned their attention to protecting their leader. Deep Blue didn’t bother looking behind him to see if any dire wolves were about to make him a snack. He knew his team would kill each and every one of them before they laid a claw-tipped hand on him.

When he reached the underside of the second flight of stairs, he leapt up and grabbed the railing, climbing up and over the side. “Up! Make for the catwalk,” he shouted.

Bishop stopped firing, slung Queen over his shoulder before she could protest and sprinted up the steps. Rook was fast on his heels. Beck kept up her cover fire until Deep Blue passed her on the steps. Only then, did she turn and take to the stairs. Knight began firing from the catwalk to the base of the stairs, where dire wolves were crawling up the exterior of the metal railings—easy shots—or were racing up the steps.

As they ran up the metal steps, Deep Blue shouted to the others between breaths. He was in great shape, but even an Olympic athlete would be panting after the day he’d had. “We need to destroy the metal support arms around the portal.”

“That was not a good idea the first time,” Rook shouted back.

“Ale says it would have helped if all the struts were down—not just two!”

“There’s six of the things left,” Rook said. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve only got one grenade left.” Rook held up a found FN-SCAR with an attached grenade launcher.

“I’ve got two,” Bishop yelled from the lead, as he reached the catwalk with Queen and set her down gently. She grabbed the railing for support and then began hopping toward where Knight lay.

“You look like shit little man,” she told him as he fired on dire wolves getting too high up the stairs.

“You have no idea. We’ll talk,” he said calmly, picking his next target and firing.

“I have two M67s,” Beck added, once she reached the catwalk.

“You kids and your toys,” Deep Blue said. “Let the old man show you how to blow something up.” He opened a buttoned pocket on his left thigh and removed a gray brick of C4. He reached into another pocket and pulled out a handful of detonators. “We’ve got about a minute left. Whose got a good arm?”

SEVENTY-THREE

Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0500 Hrs

KING FOLLOWED THE woman around the energy portal, away from the side of the globe where dire wolves continued to run and climb out. On the far wall from the hangar door was a normal set of double doors with a symbol of a black jagged lightning bolt on a yellow triangle, universal for “electrical hazard.” The door was locked and it opened outward, so King couldn’t easily kick the door in.

He stepped back from the door and fired a burst of 9 mm bullets at the upper and lower hinges on the right side. The door simply fell outward and onto the floor. The woman rushed in first, followed by King, who skidded to a halt.

There wasn’t a turbine, or a generator, but there were banks and banks of electrical switches and fuses, circuit breakers, switchboards, electricity meters, transformers and fire alarm control panels. This was a power distribution room—not the power generating station.

“I’m not an electrician,” King said, “but I think this will do.”

He pulled a small brick of tan-colored C4 explosive from Velcro straps on the outside of an armored thigh, and then a tiny detonating blasting cap from his belt, which he inserted into the brick. He tossed the brick to the far end of the small room.

“Ten seconds and counting,” he said before pushing the Russian toward the door, though he was more concerned with the second countdown running in his head, the one that was at twenty seconds.

King ran for the door, and then grabbed the woman by the arm and tugged her to the side of the wall by the broken door. They ran three more steps when the C4 detonated. The explosion ripped out the room’s other door and hurled it into the portal. A good ten feet of the brick wall on either side of the double doorway spat brick and mortar. A second larger explosion ripped through the main chamber. The concussion shook the walls and another huge portion of the ceiling over the giant room collapsed, taking catwalks with it.

DEEP BLUE REACHED the southwest corner of the catwalk and threw his large, brownie-sized block of C4. Anna Beck, who played college softball, threw three more blocks, aiming for the concrete bases of struts, though anywhere near them would do the trick. Bishop handled the remaining two, lobbing them far across the large room.

The timers were set for twenty seconds and set to go off as one. If someone dropped one, or didn’t throw it in time, they were dead. But this knowledge motivated them and the C4 bricks all landed around the room with seconds to spare.

Several things happened at once—the electrical room on the ground floor exploded, billowing fire and smoke that obscured the view of the portal.

The six bricks of C4 in the main chamber detonated all at once, pulverizing the concrete holding the struts on the floor and killing the remaining dire wolves.

The rest of the ceiling over the eastern part of the portal fell, taking parts of the northern catwalk just after Bishop leapt away.

The portal bulged and distorted as it ate the falling wreckage. The eastern catwalk broke loose on the northeastern end, and began to fall down.

Rook, closer to the upper end of the now slanting metal slide, grabbed the railing. Queen was back by the stairwell—the most structurally sound part of the room at the moment. Beck was with her. Knight slid down the angled catwalk, scrabbling with his fingertips to get a hold in the metal grill.

With a groan of bending metal, the catwalk tipped and fell, jolting to a stop a few feet later as one of the giant curved struts fell back against the wall, and the catwalk above, pinning the whole structure to the wall.

Then all the light and sound vanished.

They were plunged into darkness.

The portal was closed.

SEVENTY-FOUR

Somewhere

EIREK FOSSEN SPUN around as an unfamiliar whine tore through the air, standing his hair on end. He had walked with dire wolves and plotted with a God, but none of them frightened him like this sound.

It portended doom.

His doom.

When he saw the sound’s source, he braced himself against the massive bone wall, growing week in the knees.

“Lord Fenrir,” he said, his voice oozing fear.

A giant plane, in the shape of a crescent, crashed through the portal, pushing Fenrir up and over. The giant toppled backward as though in slow motion. It roared in frustration and something else. Pain? Fossen didn’t think it was possible, but then saw his Lord’s lower jaw dangling loosely.

“No,” he whispered. “No...”

The ground shook as Fenrir and the plane stumbled back from the portal and crashed to the ground, pulverizing hundreds of dire wolves and scattering more.

Fossen took a step toward the portal. But what could he do? The plane was obviously a move of desperation. Things were not going well for their enemies on the other side. Fenrir might be injured, but it wouldn’t stop. As soon as it freed itself from the plane, it would return to the other side. And it would heal.

Something hard jabbed Fossen’s back. He spun, not realizing he’d been walking backward, away from the portal.

He found a cage, a fifteen-foot cube, built of bones—human and dire wolf—held together by some kind of solidified secretion. He stepped back from the cage, eyes widening at the sight of the human bodies that filled the cage. The corpses were hacked into pieces—arms, legs, heads, torsos—all packed inside, floor to ceiling. The body parts glistened and he realized that they, too, had been covered in some kind of secretion.

Preserved, he thought, stepping back from the cage, but bumping into a second.

He leapt away from the second cage and spun around, finding himself surrounded by a field of the structures. Fear rose in his chest, but he squelched it. He knew Lord Fenrir killed and ate human beings, among other things. But she did not, would not, eat Fossen.

Gunshots rolled across the plains bringing his attention back to the portal. Lord Fenrir lay on Her back still, but was beginning to stir. Two figures ran over her body, heading back toward the portal. Fossen squinted his eyes. He couldn’t see the mens’ faces, but the shape and gait of one of them was familiar.

Stanislav.

He shouted the name, “Stanislav!”

But a moment later, the two men disappeared through the portal.

The crescent-shaped airplane shifted and fell partly away from Fenrir, who shrieked. She was getting back up, recovering from the blow, but slowly.

Fossen, came Her voice. You have failed.

“No,” he said, feeling a tremble in his legs. “The portal is stable!”

But it is not secure. You brought the children of Adoon to my doorstep.

“The children of what?” Fossen’s thoughts became panicked. “I didn’t know. How could I have—”

Fossen’s twitching body froze. Dust rose in the distance between him and the portal. He saw this world in shades of monotone gray, like old photos of his father, Edmund Kiss. It had unnerved him, but not nearly as much as what he saw now.

Dire wolves.

Perhaps a hundred of them.

Running toward him.

He’d been around the creatures a lot. He understood their moods. Their body language. These hundred predators were out for blood.

His blood.

“My Lord, why?” Fossen shouted.

No reply. Fossen ran away from the approaching horde, quickly arriving at the bone wall. Gripping the protruding bones, he climbed as fast as he could, reaching the top just as the hundred dire wolves arrived at the base and launched up toward him.

“The portal is open!” he shrieked.

He turned toward the glowing sphere.

Fenrir stood again, the plane falling away. The giant’s head turned toward him, its jaw dangling sickly, its body covered in white blood and ruptured wounds, looking very mortal.

Not a God.

Tears welled in Fossen’s eyes.

He stood still.

The portal winked out, drawing a gasp from his lips.

“We can start again,” he whispered.

The leash remains.

Her voice sounded almost sad now, as though filled with a disappointment more deep and complex than anything he had felt before. It brought tears to his eyes. He fell to his knees, weeping, waiting for the dire wolves to reach him and exact the punishment he now knew he deserved.

But then, as though by magic, the portal returned, blooming brighter than ever before. Fossen flinched away from the light, covering his eyes with his arm. A hot breeze washed over him. He chanced a look and in the fraction of a second he had left, he recognized the mushroom cloud rising into the gray sky. Then the shockwave hit, first melting and then obliterating his body, the dire wolves and the massive bone tower, leaving only dust and one more crater.

SEVENTY-FIVE

Outside the Gleipnir Facility, Fenris Kystby, Norway

4 November, 0520 Hrs

KING STUMBLED INTO the cold night, leading the remaining members of Endgame through the dark. Deep Blue, Knight, Queen, Bishop, Rook, Beck and the Russian woman had all survived the final confrontation and explosive finale. But they’d lost Carrack and the whole White team, Reggie and Black Six, not to mention Keasling in New York. Deep Blue hadn’t talked about it yet, nor had King, but Keasling was a good friend to them both. They would feel his loss for years, both personally and professionally, as he was their only trusted liaison to the US Military.

He pushed through a low-hanging pine branch laden with snow and held it. The clearing beyond was lit brightly by the Perseph-one’s spotlights. As the team hobbled into the clearing, the pilots and Aleman rushed out with med-kits.

With a smile, Aleman said, “Reports from around the world are coming in. Looks like you did it.” Then he saw their condition and grimaced. He tapped the med-kit in his hand and asked, “Who’s first?”

“Take her,” Rook said. He held Queen over his shoulder. She looked none too pleased about it, still, but wasn’t complaining. The two pilots laid a stretcher on the ground and helped Rook lower her. When he grunted in pain, one of the pilots saw his ruined shoulder and said, “You better come, too.”

“What about you?” Aleman asked King, who was clutching his side.

“Broken ribs,” King said. “Not a big deal. It can wait.”

Aleman shook his head. “You might be the only person on the planet who would say those three sentences in that order.”

King laughed, then grunted in pain.

Aleman turned to the Russian. “Who’s this?”

“Name’s Asya. She’s with me,” Rook said, as he helped the pilots guide Queen’s stretcher toward the plane’s loading ramp. “She’s okay.”

Aleman turned to Deep Blue who gave a nod.

But King wasn’t satisfied. When she turned to the plane, he took her shoulder and said, “Hold on.” She faced him, looking in his eyes. She stood nearly as tall as him, but he wasn’t interested in her height. He was interested in her face. So familiar. When their eyes met, he noticed she was looking at him the same way.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“Haven’t figured it out yet?” Queen called as she was carried up the Persephone’s loading ramp. “Who taught you how to fight, King?”

A lot of people had taught King how to fight. Hand-to-hand combat instructors, martial artists, every enemy he fought, even Queen had taught him a thing or two.

As Queen disappeared inside the plane, she shouted one more time. “The first person.”

King’s eyes widened. The story, which he’d told the team over beers one night, came back to him in a flash. He was ten. Got the snot beat out of him by a couple of kids. While his mother, Lynn Sigler, pursued typical childhood diplomatic channels—calling the other kid’s mothers—King’s father, Peter Sigler, took him in the back yard and taught him how to fight. Some of the moves became part of his natural fighting style. He’d used a few in the brawl inside the—

So had Asya.

He staggered away from her as though he’d seen a ghost, shuffling through the deep snow. Recognition slammed into his gut now. The face. The eyes.

“What is it?” Asya asked, stepping toward him.

Deep Blue rushed over, placing a hand on King’s shoulder. “Aleman, get a—”

“It’s fine,” King said. “I’m okay. I—I just know who she is.” He stood straighter, looking into Asya’s eyes. “She has my mother’s eyes.”

Deep Blue looked like he’d been slapped. He whipped his head toward Asya, staring at her eyes. “My God.”

“Her eyes?” Asya said, still confused. “How—”

“Your last name,” King said. “Is it Machtcenko?”

She looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“Because it’s my last name, too,” he said. “My real last name. My parents were Russian spies. Their cover name was Sigler. My father taught us both how to fight. Fenrir’s roar didn’t affect me, probably because of a genetic trait passed down by my parents. You have that same trait.”

Asya’s eyes began to widen.

Despite being completely unnerved by the development, a smile crept onto King’s face and tears threatened to spill from his eyes. Since Julie’s death, he’d felt a void in his life. He’d grown up with a sister and missed that relationship greatly. But now...maybe he had a second chance? “You’re my sister.”

Dear Reader,

You are just an epilogue away from finishing this book and I wanted to take a moment to thank you for reading. I hope you have enjoyed the journey and that you will come back for more adventures. If you did enjoy the book, please show your support by posting a review at Amazon.com. The Amazon website works on algorithms, meaning the more people positively review my books, the more Amazon will recommend them to other readers. And the more people buy my books, the more I get to write them, which is a good thing for both of us (assuming you enjoyed the book).

So today's lesson is: good Amazon mojo + algorithms lead to more sales, even more positive mojo, more books, bigger releases, extra bonus features and eventually a glorious mojofest unlike anything the world has ever seen before. So support the mojofest and post a review...right after you finish reading the epilogue!

Thank you again and please forgive this intrusion.

-- Jeremy Robinson

EPILOGUE

Endgame Headquarters, White Mountains, NH

14 December, 1430 Hrs

SNOW FELL HEAVILY outside the immense open hangar door of the Endgame base, hidden under the large rocky face of Mount Tecumseh, in the White Mountains. King drove a black Humvee into the large hangar and parked it next to a Black Hawk helicopter that sat dormant, its rotor blades strapped down lengthwise along the vehicle with nylon webbing to metal rings sunk into the gray concrete floor.

He climbed out of the driver’s seat, and Asya stepped out on the other side of the vehicle. Before they had fully emerged, the massive metal door that retracted into the ceiling of rock above the doorway began to lower. Soldiers in white battle gear operated a newly installed guard shack that had a door leading from a shack on the inside of the hangar to an identical shack on the outside, adjacent to the massive door.

Some of Deep Blue’s new White security team. King knew they were top-notch soldiers from Fort Drum, just like their predecessors had been. He just hadn’t taken the time to get to know any of them. If they lived long enough, he knew he would. The only thing he knew about them was that Deep Blue had foregone the Chess-themed numbering and hired ten men to be security members, where previously they had numbered only five.

There was a lot to think about and process in the wake of the assault, which had hit the team hard, but the world even harder. Millions were dead or missing. Cities were destroyed or simply gone. The world economy was in turmoil. The silver lining was that most governments recognized that the threat was not of this Earth and threatened every nation. The damage was extensive, but governments were entering a new phase of cooperation as they lent aid, rebuilt and prepared to fight global threats as a unified force rather than as separate nations. King wasn’t naïve, though. There would be some who deviated from the plan. Over time, alliances would fade. Greed would divide nations. Eventually, without a second attack, the world’s governments would be back to fighting each other.

Despite all of that, King had only one focus right now: finding his parents. He and Asya had been hard at it for weeks, tracking down every lead. Asya had been temporarily given the callsign: Hammer for the mission, which began as a joke with Queen referencing how well Asya had fought in Norway, and also referring to the symbol from the old Soviet flag. Asya liked it.

They were a natural team and bonded quickly. Asya reminded King of his mother and he of her father. They swapped childhood stories, marveling at how their parents had led double lives, in two countries. And for the first time in his life, King knew where his father had really been during the ten years he’d been missing. Asya had also become fast friends with Sara and enjoyed being called “Auntie Asya” by Fiona, who also enjoyed rubbing in the fact that the women in King’s life now outnumbered him three to one.

As King and Asya headed down the hallway toward the main computer lab to check in with Deep Blue, they came across Rook and Queen, heading the other way. Rook was dressed in shorts and tennis shoes, with a rock t-shirt that read Primal Puppy Dogs on the front and showed a silhouette of a medium-sized dog, lifting its leg and urinating on a guitar leaning against an amplifier. As a native of New Hampshire, things like winter didn’t faze him. Even when they would go outdoors to local restaurants as a group, Rook wore shorts year-round. Over his t-shirt, he wore his arm in a blue medical sling. His shoulder would still need a few more weeks to recover from the surgery he had undergone to repair his rotator cuff.

Queen wore tight-fitting jeans and a loose navy sweater that accentuated her lithe physique. She also wore a black pneumatic medical fracture boot on her ankle that allowed her to walk short distances while her ankle healed. Her right hand was in a blue cast from the fingers to just beyond her wrist.

King noticed that she held Rook’s hand with her left hand as they approached, and they were not shy about it. He smiled at them. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good,” Rook said. “Together we make one function- ing human body.” Queen elbowed him in the rib, and he smiled broadly at King and Asya.

“I never did ask you, Rook,” King said, a grin forming, “That plan we discussed on the Crescent, while we were on the other side.”

Rook’s eyes widened with a look of Shut-up, King!

“How’d that work out for you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Rook said.

“What’s he talking about?” Queen asked.

“Nevermind him, Zel.” Rook tried to lead her away.

“Oh, ma puce,” Queen said, “Are you afraid I’ll learn about your plan to save the world and get in my pants?”

Rook laughed and shouted, “You told her! You son-of-a—”

Just then, Deep Blue came rushing around the corner of the corridor from the direction of the computer lab. “Been waiting for you to get back,” he said looking at King, then he turned to Rook and Queen. “You two should hear this as well.”

He was holding a piece of old-looking, yellowed parchment in his hand. He gave it to King, and King read aloud:

You handled Fenrir well.

I needed the laptop, so I helped myself.

Don’t pursue the issue. Peter and Lynn have enjoyed
my hospitality so far but if you push, King…

The note was signed with a symbol King had seen before: a circle with two vertical lines through it, making a stylized letter H.

It was the symbol for the mysterious Herculean Society, a group that controlled and altered the historical record to hide the truth of past events. But it was also used as the signature for the group’s leader, Alexander Diotrophes.

Hercules.

Previously the man had assisted Chess Team during the Hydra affair—after all, he was the one that had dealt with the Hydra in ancient times. He had rescued Fiona from the massacre at her reservation in Oregon and delivered her to King for safekeeping. Then the man had even been an active ally in the fight against Richard Ridley and his Machiavellian schemes.

“The laptop?” King asked. "What laptop?"

Deep Blue looked to the floor, lost in thought for a moment. “Before we bugged out of Fenris Kystby, Lew was able to access the servers wirelessly. He download three terabytes of data covering nearly seventy years of failed experiments: the dire wolf hybrids, as well as personnel files, notes, photos, security logs—everything—including the schematics and very detailed plans on how to build the portal device.”

"Why haven't I heard of this until now?" King asked, doing nothing to hide his ruffled feathers.

"Lew hadn't decrypted the files until this morning," Deep Blue answered. "You were going to be briefed later today."

"But now we've lost everything?"

Deep Blue shook his head, no. "Lew transferred the files to our servers, but the information was never deleted from the laptop. How Alexander could have known about the laptop or that it contained anything worthwhile is beyond me. But now he has it. And I have no idea how he could have gotten past our security. It’s been significantly beefed up since the GenY incursion. And…” Deep Blue paused for a second, shaking his head as if he couldn’t imagine how it was done. “I was looking at the laptop two days ago, before I put it back in the safe. The base has been fully populated since then. Everyone was here. He walked right past all of us and got out again unnoticed.”

King scowled. He had known that Alexander was a tenuous ally from the start, but now the man had stepped over the line. Immortal or not, demigod or not, he had infiltrated their headquarters, stolen hard-earned intel and abducted King’s parents.

He had just declared himself an enemy of Endgame and the Machtcenko family.

Asya snatched the paper from King’s hand and read it. “Who is this man?”

“His name is Alexander—you might have heard of him being called Hercules—and I think I’m going to have to kill him.”

###

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS

JEREMY ROBINSON is the author of seventeen novels including the highly praised, SECONDWORLD, as well as PULSE, INSTINCT, and THRESHOLD, the first three books in his exciting Jack Sigler series. His novels have been translated into ten languages.

He lives in New Hampshire with his wife and three children.

Visit him online at: www.jeremyrobinsononline.com

KANE GILMOUR has visited or lived in over 40 countries around the world. A former rock climber and mountain biker, he now kayaks, and still explores the furthest reaches of the world, as time permits. His first two adventure thrillers in the Jason Quinn series, RESURRECT and FROZEN are available now. He lives in the wilds of central Vermont with his wife, son, and daughter.

Visit him online at: www.kanegilmour.com

-UNCORRECTED SAMPLE-

SECONDWORLD by JEREMY ROBINSON

Click here to buy!

DESCRIPTION:

Lincoln Miller, an ex-Navy SEAL turned NCIS Special Agent is sent to Aquarius, the world's only sub-oceanic research facility located off the Florida Keys, to investigate reports of ocean dumping. A week into his stay, strange red flakes descend from the surface. Scores of fish are dead and dying, poisoned by the debris that turns to powder in Miller's fingers and tastes like blood.

Miller heads for the surface, ready to fight whoever is polluting on his watch. But he finds nothing. No ships. No polluters.

No oxygen.

Instead, he finds a cloudless sky full of red particles dropping like snow and coating the ocean with a thick film that stretches to the horizon. When a dead blue whale collides with Aquarius, Miller begins a harrowing race to escape the affected area. Cut off from the rest of the world and surrounded by death, Miller makes his way to Miami where he discovers just one survivor, and the awful truth: the strange phenomenon that robbed the air of its life giving oxygen was an attack by an enemy reborn from the ashes of World War II. And they're just getting started. Miami, Tel Aviv, and Tokyo have all been destroyed. Millions are dead.

And if Miller can't track down and stop those responsible in seven days, the rest of the world is next.

EXCERPT:

3

Nine Miles South of Key Largo, Florida – Atlantic Ocean

Saturday - August 11, 2012

Fifty feet below the surface of the tropical ocean, Lincoln Miller cringed as his eyes locked onto the cracked portal window. A spider web of fissures spread out from the center, reaching for the edge like desperate fingers. He knew the glass would give way at any moment and ocean water would rocket into the research station, drowning whoever was inside.

Despite the dire circumstances, he had more urgent needs to attend to. He picked up the TV remote and paused the DVD before heading to the bathroom. The picture froze on the screen, stopping the first jet of CGI water as it rocketed through the portal.

As a NCIS (Naval Criminal Investigation Service) Special Agent currently tasked with investigating recently reported acts of ocean dumping over the coral reefs, Miller was technically hard at work. There were only three other people in the world that knew he wasn’t—the Director of the NCIS, the Deputy Director, and the Executive Assistant Director for Combating Terrorism—his bosses. He had balked at the assignment when it landed on his desk. His skills were better suited to tracking down Navy criminals on the lamb or tracking down sea-faring terrorists. As a former Navy SEAL, now Special Agent, his skills seemed a gross overkill in the battle against glorified litter-bugs. It wasn’t until he arrived on site that he realized the true nature of his assignment—a vacation.

He was scheduled to spend two weeks in the NOAA’s (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) Aquarius, an underwater research station—the world’s only underwater research station. He was required to patrol the reefs surrounding laboratory twice daily, searching for signs of recent polluting, and if possible, apprehend the culprits in the act. As a SCUBA enthusiast and lover of all things ocean, he looked forward to each and every “patrol”.

Because Miller was an extreme work-a-holic, the NOAA assignment was the only way his superiors could get him to take his first real break in five years. It wasn’t that Miller was performing poorly; quite the opposite, they simply believed that no engine could run forever without a respite. In truth, their actions were selfish. Were Miller to burn out, the loss would be significant to the organization. Not only was he a consummate investigator, but his time with the SEALS made him a man of action as well. The NCIS had plenty of both, but rarely in the same package.

With his first week of forced vacation over and his second week just beginning, he was feeling pretty good. The laboratory was cramped, but he had traveled by submarine several times as a SEAL and had no problems with claustrophobia. The lab was well-stocked with every deep-sea movie and novel available. The lab’s full refrigerator, air conditioning, microwave, shower and high tech computer system, complete with video games, not to mention unlimited time to swim or even spearfish, made this place Miller’s dream come true. Of course, he’s spent the last few days lazing about, watching movies, playing games and reading books. He suspected the “ocean dumping” investigation was just a clever cover story for his vacation and had taken a break from his scheduled Scuba patrols. There was plenty of time left to dive, he just needed some couch potato time first.

The facility was a forty-three foot long, nine-foot in diameter, 80-ton cylindrical steel chamber separated into two different compartments, each with its own air pressure system and life support. There were living quarters for sleeping and eating, and labs for work. At the far end, off the lab, was a wet porch with an open moon pool for entering the ocean. Miller had all of this to himself, plus—and this was the best part—not a peep from the outside world for three days.

It’s not that he didn’t like people. It’s just that people liked to talk, and after his first day aboard had decided the break would be good for him. Quiet was bliss. Years of pent up tension he hadn’t realized he carried began to melt away. So when the NOAA staff stopped checking in on their laboratory, he didn’t think twice about why. Instead, he allowed himself to undergo an emotional re-adjustment.  He went over years of cases, of killers caught, of terrorists exposed, and the few who slipped away. Then he moved further back, to the SEALs, and the event that etched a long scar into his leg and left a little girl dead. The tragedy ended his career with the SEALs, but down there, fifty feet beneath the surface of the ocean, he thought he might finally make peace with his past.

After he finished the movie.

Finished relieving himself, Miller hustled back to his seat without washing his hands. Why bother? Urine was sterile. More important, no one was here to judge him. He’d let his appearance slide over the past week, as well. His black hair was uncombed, his face unshaven. Being half-Jewish and half-Italian, Miller’s week’s worth of facial hair was damn near a beard now.

The chair beneath him groaned as he leaned back and propped his legs up on a work desk. With the remote back in his hand, he waited, held his breath and listened.

Silence.

Wonderful silence.

No worried NAOO voices. No traffic. No cell phone calls. He thought about telling the Director that the time off had convinced him to retire. Sure, he was only thirty-nine, but life without responsibility was fun. He held out the remote, positioned his thumb over the play button and—

Thunk!

The noise wasn’t loud, but was so unexpected that Miller flinched, lost his balance and toppled over. He struck his head hard on the metal floor.

“Son of a bitch!”

He lay there for a moment, wondering exactly how he’d ended up on the floor, and then felt the back of his head. One area, the size of an apple, was swollen, pulsing with pain, but there was no blood. He wouldn’t need stitches, which was good because he couldn’t get them here. In fact, if there was any kind of emergency, he was pretty much screwed. A nine-mile boat ride, and a fifty-foot dive, did not make for an easy 911 rescue.

He was on his own.

With a sigh, he rolled his head to the side and caught his reflection in the polished stainless steel base of a workbench. He grunted at the sight of himself. He flashed what he thought was a winning smile, sharpening the fine spread of crow’s feet around his blue eyes, but his current disheveled appearance hid his good looks. He hadn’t seen himself look this bad since just after...

He pushed the images from his mind, still not fully prepared to deal with his past—not with a movie to finish, and a mysterious noise needing investigating.

He sat up. Pain surged through his head twice, following the rhythm of his heartbeat, and then faded away. When he stood, the pain rose up again, but only momentarily. Shuffling over to the fridge to grab an icepack, he passed by the small bedroom containing six bunks, three on each side, with a large viewing portal between them. He stopped suddenly, his eyes focusing on the glass portal.

Something wasn’t right.

It was a fish, not an uncommon sight, but something was odd about this one. Its movements were all wrong. He squeezed between the beds to get a better look.

Thunk!

The fish was back, this time smacking hard against the window.

Miller blinked a couple times.  The fish, a black grouper, wasn’t moving on its own. The ocean’s currents were pushing it up against the hull.

Well, that’s damn annoying.

He was about to head back to the fridge when something else flitted by the window. It looked like a large piece of fish food. This time, Miller focused on the water beyond the dead fish. There were other fish out there—scores of them—and they zipped through the water in a miniature feeding frenzy. The fish, normally concealed by the reef that Aquarius had been built to study, had come out of hiding, drawn by what looked like a Jolly Green Giant-sized handful of TetraMin. Most of the fish snatched up the flakes with gaping mouths, then spit the reddish stuff back out. If they were smart, anyway. Many fish, dumb enough to swallow the ‘fish’ food, floated belly up. Poisoned.

Not seeing any large green legs in the vicinity, Miller searched his mind for answers and came up with only one—some jerks were actually dumping waste on top of the research station. Not only were they polluting and killing wildlife, they were also ruining his vacation. Why couldn’t you have waited just a few more days? He was as pissed at these polluters as he was the terrorists he helped track, and a piece of his mind was just the beginning of what he was going to give them.

Miller ran to the wet porch and hastily pulled on a full tank of air, dive fins and a mask. In these tropical waters, he didn’t need a wet suit, plus he was already dressed only in shorts—another perk of solitary living on board the Aquarius.

He slid into the water and took in the scene around him. The flakes were falling everywhere. Fish, thousands of them, were either eating eagerly, twitching in violent death throws, or already dead. A few small, white-tip sharks picked off the twitchers in the distance. The sharks didn’t pose much of a threat, but he would have to watch out for tigers and bulls. All this action could draw their attention, which meant he could easily be mistaken for one of the twitchers—not that tiger sharks cared. He could be a car and they’d still take a bite.

He kicked out from under the Aquarius cylinder and looked up. What he saw made no sense.

The normally blue surface of the ocean...

...was red.

4

Miller scanned the fuchsia waves above, looking for some sign of dumping—a thicker plume of material, for example, or better yet, a ship’s hull. When he found what he was looking for, he intended to rise from the depths like the Kraken and bring a world of hurt to the people responsible. But he could see nothing to direct his anger towards, just an endless sea of red. Visibility had been cut in half, not just by the fog falling from above, but because much of the sun’s light was being blocked by the maroon film covering the ocean’s surface.

Miller looked down. The normally sandy brown seabed was coated in the ruddy ash; the coral reef had been buried. Dying fish thrashed about, sending plumes of the foreign substance upward like dust.

How had he missed this? It couldn’t have just started. There was too much. He hadn’t been outside Aquarius for days, but had he really not bothered to look out one of the portals?

A ladyfish struck his side, its silver body twitching as the last of its neurons fired. He took the fish by the tail and pulled it closer; its body went rigid, giving way to death. Pulling its mouth open, he peered inside. Red sludge lined the dark cave, thick as paint. He checked the gills and found the same phenomenon.

His eyes darted back to the snowy scene of death surrounding him. Some fish and the sharks in the distance had taken to eating the recently dead instead of chasing after the poisonous flakes. Perhaps they would survive?  He hoped so. A massive die-off in the Florida Keys would have a profound effect on the surrounding ecosystems, not to mention the many migratory species that passed through. A pod of blue whales had recently been spotted heading north. The red cloud, which looked like krill, would be absolutely irresistible to the 100-foot giants.

A fluttering piece of red material, about the size of a cornflake, caught his eye. He reached out and caught it in his palm, then grasped it between two fingers. It was surprisingly firm. He squeezed and it broke apart. He rubbed his fingers together, releasing a blood-like cloud as the material dissolved.

He took a deep breath from his regulator, tasting the metallic flavored air, and let it out slowly, releasing a cascade of bubbles, which fled to the surface. His eyes followed them. He knew the answer to this mystery lay up there. The more he saw, however, the less he wanted to know what was happening.

But he had no choice.

He kicked hard, pumping his muscles, an action that ate up the air in his tank more quickly than would a leisurely swim. He checked the pressure gauge—still plenty of air remaining. This would most likely be a short dive, so he could take the risk. Besides, the wet porch was only fifty feet below and he could free dive that if he had to. Holding your breath for long periods of time is a handy talent to have as a SEAL, and one he had worked on over the years. The skill had yet to save his life, but he had a feeling it would, eventually.

As he neared the surface, the material grew dense, which meant it was definitely coming from above and not being pushed into the area by ocean currents. The material had to be coming from a boat, or a plane, or... Well, he didn’t want to consider the last possibility, and wouldn’t, until he confirmed it with his own eyes.

Through the haze he found the umbilical cord that connected Aquarius to its Life Support Buoy, or LSB. The LSB supplied power and provided wireless communications and telemetry to the station and held air compressors, as well. It also made for a convenient viewing platform. While standing on top of the LSB, which was shaped like a super-sized, yellow chess piece, Miller would be able to see from horizon to horizon. If someone was dumping this garbage, he’d spot them.

Approaching the buoy, Miller kicked harder, building speed so he could launch himself onto the platform. As he broke the surface, clumps of wet slime slid from his back and arms. A glob clung to his hair, but he paid it no attention. What he was seeing distracted him from doing anything else. He didn’t stand, remove his goggles or take out his regulator. He simply gaped.

The world was red. As far as he could see, a crust, like refrigerated pudding, coated the surface of the ocean. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, yet crimson flakes fell like snow from a sky that looked more purple than blue.

Heart beating hard, he stood up and looked in every direction. He spotted a sailboat off to the north, its sail limp as wilted lettuce, but nothing else caught his eye.

Miller tentatively held out a hand and caught another flake. Its surface felt rough and porous to his touch, like a petrified snowflake. Curious, he removed his regulator and placed the flake on his tongue. The flavor of blood struck him immediately. He gagged and spit several times, then took a deep, shaky breath.  The air did no good. He felt winded, as though he’d just run a sprint.

He took another breath. His chest began to ache. He grew lightheaded.

He took a third, deeper breath—

—and fell to his knees.

Was it poison? Could these flakes kill so quickly?

Spots danced in his vision as he realized the truth.

He was suffocating.

Drowning in the open air like a fish.

He shoved the regulator back into his mouth and breathed deeply, this time relishing the metallic tasting air. He continued taking deep breaths until his head cleared and he felt relatively normal again. It wasn’t until then that he let his mind fill in the blanks.

He couldn’t breathe in the open air! What did it mean? What...

Oh shit! Miller thought. I can’t breathe because...there’s no oxygen!

-SAMPLE-

RESURRECT by KANE GILMOUR

Available for $2.99 on Kindle: Click here to buy!

DESCRIPTION:

In the 1850s, a madman proclaims himself the Son of God and raises an army, taking over half of China. A century and a half later, his descendent and legions of devoted followers plan to take over more than just China.
When alpine engineer and mountaineer Jason Quinn, a man with a past mired in tragedy and violence, meets archeologist Dr. Eva Rayjek after a plane crash in the high Himalaya, neither of them are expecting wave after wave of Chinese assassins.

Pursued to America, the frozen ice of the Gulf of Finland, and the heights of Hong Kong, Quinn and Eva connect her investigations with the machinations of charismatic shipping magnate and cathedral-builder, David Hong. As a scheme to obtain a private audience with the Pope at the Vatican comes to fruition, Hong’s fanatical followers are preparing for global warfare.

If Quinn fails to stop Hong’s plan, the entire Catholic Church just might crumble.

RESURRECT is the first book in the Jason Quinn series. Fans of Matthew Reilly, Jeremy Robinson, James Rollins, and Clive Cussler should all enjoy this first adventure in the exploits of mountaineer Jason Quinn.

EXCERPT:

CHAPTER 14

“Doesn’t he look like a damn gunslinger?” Curtis asked Eva with a smile.

They had been hiking for a while. Johnson carried the backpack with the climbing gear, and Quinn was loaded up with the camping equipment, two ice axes hanging from the waist belt of his harness by short slings with carabiners. These axes had been specially designed for him with carbon-fiber blades made from Buckminster-Fullerene, a special form of carbon reputed to be harder than diamond. On his feet were huge clunky white plastic boots that looked to Eva like skiing boots, but these had metal teeth that retracted into the toes and soles. Eva knew what ice-climbing crampons looked like, but she had never seen any that were a part of the shoe itself. Usually, she knew, they resembled a foot-shaped metal cage with teeth, and were attached to the bottom of climbing or hiking boots. What she didn’t know was that the boots on Quinn’s feet had also been made specifically for him, and to his own original design specs. The climbing crampon teeth were spring-loaded and could be ejected from the soles of the boots at the push of a button.

Eva had protested the fact that the men hadn’t given her a pack to carry, but the men had looked at each other and then proclaimed that there wasn’t anything left to carry—almost as if they had planned it that way.

“Yes. But he’s a cute gunslinger. More young Clint Eastwood than Jack Palance,” Eva replied, loud enough for Quinn to overhear as he walked slightly ahead of the other two.

“Hear that? She thinks I’m the cute one.” Quinn added. “Guess that makes you scraggly ol’ Lee Marvin.”

They all chuckled at that one. They had been joking like this for a while, as the terrain was becoming more and more bleak and depressing. They had seen no signs of any kind of life. No plants or trees grew in this part of the Himalaya. The mountains were a palette of muted brown and gray colors—when they did actually show through the ice and snow. As they progressed along the barren winter landscape, they encountered the brown less frequently as the drifted snow became more difficult to negotiate, often getting waist deep.

After a night camping, they moved on again. By the middle of the day, the level of accumulated snow was decreasing, and the browns and grays were more apparent once again. The three lunched by a frozen river, and soaked in the sun, which was warming in spite of the altitude. The conversation focused on guessing the origin of their dehydrated packaged food.

When they had finished and Quinn and Johnson had packed the gear and hefted their backpacks, Eva sauntered off ahead of them as they neared the frozen river. Earlier, Johnson had suggested a way through the hills that followed a valley on the other side of the river. When Eva reached the edge of the stream, she took a tentative step on the surface of the ice, finding that it held her weight nicely.

“It should be fine. We’ll go across one at a time though,” Johnson told her.

She was about three quarters of the way across when Quinn and Johnson watched her plunge clean through the ice, and into the rushing waters below, disappearing instantaneously.

“Not good,” Quinn said calmly as he began sprinting toward the ice. Curtis was right behind him, running hard. Quinn lunged from the shore landing on his knees on the ice about ten feet downstream of the spot where Eva had gone in. He frantically swept the snow aside to find that he was right on top of her. She was moving fast, being slid along the underside of the ice by the current. Quinn hacked at the ice above her with his ice ax, but the ice was too thick at this part of the river, and he was barely making a dent, as small chips and flakes of ice flew in an arc behind each swing. She was moving too fast.

“I can’t get her, Curtis! She’s getting away!” Quinn was nearly panicked. The strain in his voice was apparent to Johnson, who was already sprinting along the edge of the stream, past Quinn. Johnson was anticipating where the current would take Eva, and trying to get there first.

“Move your ass, Quinn!” Curtis yelled. Quinn was up and chasing Curtis along the bank. Curtis was well ahead by now, and removing his pack. He clipped a carabiner to his belt, and tossed the pack onto the ice as he kept running. Quinn could see that the neon green and pink climbing rope from the pack was spooling out as Curtis ran. The other end was now clipped to Johnson’s belt. Then Quinn watched in awe of his friend, as Curtis leapt from the riverbank and pulled his knees to his chest in mid-air. Curtis Johnson executed a perfect cannonball directly into the center of the frozen stream, and crashed through the ice, leaving behind a nearly perfect, round hole in the surface. He disappeared and Quinn understood as the climbing rope quickly slithered into the hole.

“Got it,” Quinn said, as he leapt headfirst out over the ice as if to dive into the shallow end of a swimming pool. He hit the ice smoothly and his yellow environment suit’s nylon surface slid across the ice with little friction. He was moving fast, head first, across the ice toward the pack Curtis had dropped. But now the rope pulled taught on the other carabiner that secured the rope to the inside of the pack. The pack began to slide toward the hole at an amazing speed.

“Current’s picked up. Damn it!” Quinn reached for the pack with his left hand and still clutched the ax in his right. He was a few feet from the hole when his finger felt a nylon strap. He clenched his fist and swung the ax down hard. It sank into the surface up to the shaft, and his body pivoted from the momentum. He clutched the pack firmly and let his body jerk to a hard stop. His shoulder felt torn, but he gripped the pack strap as hard as he could. He looked behind him to see that his feet were now dangling over the hole Curtis had made. Another second and they all might have been dead, their corpses washing ashore somewhere in India. Now Quinn pulled a leg up by the sunken head of the ice ax and clicked a plastic button on the side of his boot by smacking the boot on the ice. The spring-loaded climbing crampons extended with a snapping sound. Then he brought the boot down hard, digging the metal teeth into the ice. Next, he pulled the pack to his body, and wrapped the rope around his arm twice. Now he was an anchor. Curtis would have to do the rest.

It took a few seconds that seemed longer, before Quinn felt a steady pull on the rope. He waited. It seemed to take forever. His right arm ached, as he clutched the ax, and he prayed that the ice below him didn’t crack. A minute passed, and still there was nothing.

Then she was there. Eva broke the surface with a gasp, sucking in air, and clinging to the pack that Quinn held. She was about to say something to Quinn, when to his surprise, she literally launched out of the hole, and over Quinn, where she landed on the ice in a crumpled wet mess. Quinn’s eyes shot back to the hole where Johnson’s arm was extended after having shoved Eva up and out of the water. From the position of the hand, Quinn guessed that it had been on Eva’s backside, and he barked a harsh laugh, as Johnson hauled himself out of the hole and gulped in frigid mountain air.

“Good thinking,” Quinn told him.

Johnson took in the scene with the pack, the ice ax, and the boot crampons, and nodded. “Good save.”

“Good teamwork,” Eva managed through her violent shivering. “Now let’s get off this damn ice and get warm.”

CHAPTER 15

Curtis thought Quinn’s shoulder looked terrible. It was obviously dislocated. The flesh had turned purple from torn blood vessels, and the head of the humerus, the long bone in the upper arm, was now located about a fist’s width to the front of Quinn’s shoulder joint. In all their years of climbing together, it was the worst injury he had ever seen Jason Quinn sustain.

Curtis had always held a secret belief that Quinn was charmed with regard to personal injury. The man rarely got injured, and when he did, he tended to heal extremely fast. One time when climbing on Pinnacle Peak in Arizona, Johnson looked on in concern as Quinn showed the 6-inch gash to his forearm he received on a tough lieback crack called “Lizard’s Lips”. Quinn had wrapped it in gauze and they had headed home. The next day, Johnson was stunned to see Quinn’s cut sealed, and a week later, it was gone, with hardly a trace of a scar. As a result, Johnson was rarely alarmed when Quinn got slightly injured. But this one looked harsh.

“Oh, it looks fine. I don’t think we need to do anything with it,” Curtis commented nonchalantly.

Quinn was lying on the snow-covered ground with the top of his environment suit off, and pulled down to his waist. He wore only a thin Capilene tank top, and he was already beginning to shiver from the cold.

“Can the sarcasm and just do it,” he said.

“I can’t watch this. This is just too gross.” Eva said as she turned away.

Curtis held Quinn’s outstretched hand, pulled the arm outward slightly, and raised the heel of his mountain boot. In one swift movement he brought his foot down on Quinn’s disfigured shoulder joint, driving the head of the humerus down into the joint where it belonged. The sound reminded Johnson of the report of a Colt 44 pistol. The crack was loud, and Quinn cringed at the pain but didn’t cry out. He refused to let his pain do anything other than make him angrier at the killers who had murdered his team. His resolve to get answers and justice only grew stronger with the blaze of red and black that filled his vision as the pain vibrated through his whole skeleton.

After a moment of breathing heavily, Quinn got up and helped Johnson set up their tent. It was another garishly bright yellow TNF geodesic-dome tent. Quinn’s pack contained a miniature version of the futuristic stove Eva had seen back at the Sunnydale camp. After it was set up in the tent, the heat from the stove took only a few minutes to dry Curtis’s and Eva’s still damp synthetic fiber clothing after Quinn had wrung the garments out. In the meantime, they huddled in compressible micro-fiber fleece blankets. Since he wasn’t wet, Quinn hung his blanket from the gear loft near the tent’s ceiling, effectively creating a wall separating the tent into two halves, so that Eva could undress in private.

They sat in silence. Eva thought about her deceased colleagues. Johnson thought about the seismologist Val, and how he was supposed to have had a date with her once they had all returned to the States. That wouldn’t be happening now. Instead, he would be attending a lot of funerals—if they made it back to the States.

Quinn saw only a blistering haze of crimson as his thoughts turned repeatedly to revenge. He hadn’t been truly involved in his heart or his head with Eva’s mysterious plane crash, although he was attracted to her. He had been willing to believe that there was some explanation for the plane crash. But now there was no mystery. Someone had deliberately tried to kill Eva and the other two archeologists. And now the bastards that were after her had come back and tried again. Only this time they had murdered his entire team. Eight people whose lives were entrusted to him were dead, he himself had been buried alive three times in one day, and Johnson and Eva were nearly drowned.

Oh yes, he thought. I am completely involved now.

He went out of the tent and filled a small plastic resealable bag with snow and chunks of ice he carved out of the frozen ground with the retractable spikes on his boots. When the bag was full, he used a roll of neon green duct-tape to strap it to his aching shoulder and pulled his environment suit on over the improvised ice pack. He thought dark and grim thoughts the whole time. He wanted answers. He wanted names. He wanted to see someone bleed…

After Curtis and Eva were just finished dressing and Quinn had come back into the tent, Eva heard the sound.

“What’s that noise?” she asked.

“Helicopter.” Quinn frowned as he went back out again.

The other two followed him out and scanned the skies for the distant thumping sound. Snow was beginning to fall again. They were close to the river they had just escaped, and as Quinn searched the sky for a helicopter, he realized they were completely hemmed in on all sides by the dusty brown hills and brilliant blue and white snow covered mountains. They were in a valley, and they were sitting ducks if the chopper wasn’t friendly. He was about to suggest they try to find some cover somewhere, but it was too late.

The twin-turbine Bell 214 helicopter came screaming over a low range of hills and into the valley. It was the regularly scheduled ARGO supply helicopter that was supposed to stop by the Sunnydale camp. The logo on the side of the white fuselage simply said ARGO with a stylized mountaineering ice ax underlining the acronym. But it was a day early, and it was moving way too fast.

“Crap on toast!” Johnson clearly understood the implications of the helicopter’s untimely arrival.

They were all running in different directions when the angry sputtering blizzard of gunfire began. The line of fire ripped right through their tent, and the spot where they had all been standing just seconds before. Quinn recognized the sound. It was the almost leisurely cycle of an AK-47 assault rifle. The chopper blazed past on its first attack run, and Quinn caught a glimpse of both the unfamiliar Chinese pilot and the gunman in the open side cargo door with the Russian-designed weapon. Quinn continued his sprint back toward the river, hoping the helicopter would follow him.

Eva had changed her path to catch up with Curtis, and the two of them scrambled frantically for the cover of some small rocks and boulders. The helicopter had turned and was coming in fast and low, straight toward Quinn, since Johnson and Eva were now crouched down and out of sight. The rifle burst to life again, and a series of what looked like fountains of snow erupted straight up out of the ground, as bullets swept in a line toward Quinn. Just as the line of fire was about to rip him in half, he leapt up and sideways, landing hard in the snow, on his already injured shoulder. He swore, rolled, and sprinted in the other direction, back toward their camp. The helicopter banked sharply, and came at Quinn again. This time as the line of fire raked near to Quinn, he leapt into the air and performed an excellent back flip, landing in the snow on his stomach. The bullets grazed by close enough for him to smell the scorched air in their trail. He was getting tired and knew he had to do something about the shooter first.

As the helicopter raced skyward to perform another twisting banking maneuver, Quinn sprinted for all he was worth toward the frozen river, and dove head first into a slide across the ice. When he hit the other bank, he scooped up a rock the size of a melon, rolled, got to his feet, and stood perfectly still on the ice with an angry, defiant look on his face. The rock, held slightly behind his thigh, was concealed from the view of the approaching helicopter.

Quinn made no move and the approaching helicopter slowed. He could see the shooter replacing the curved magazine on the rifle, and chambering the first round. The helicopter slowed to a crawl, hovering over the frozen river, and turning broadside toward Quinn, so the open cargo door faced him head-on. The Chinese rifleman just looked slightly puzzled. Quinn didn’t move. He just breathed in slowly, readying himself for the task ahead. Curtis and Eva looked on in frightened silence from their hiding place.

“What the hell is he doing?” Curtis asked.

When it happened, it was like a slow motion scene from a fast-paced Hong Kong action movie. Curtis could swear that both Quinn and the Chinese shooter moved in perfect unison like gun-fighters in the Old West. The shooter had switched to single-fire, leveled the rifle and fired a round in one fluid motion. Quinn sprung into the air horizontally, and launched his rock with his injured right arm. The bullet grazed Quinn’s shoulder as he was in mid-leap. The plastic sack of snow and ice sprayed outwards away from Quinn’s body, as did a small arcing spurt of blood. About a fraction of a second later, the rock smashed into the shooter’s face, which burst in a geyser of twinkling maroon droplets. The man’s body pitched forward, rifle and all, plunged downwards, crashed through the frozen surface of the river just a couple of feet below the helicopter, and disappeared from view completely. Quinn crashed into a crumpled heap in the snow on the bank, and Curtis came rushing toward him. Eva remained behind and watched as the confused helicopter pilot suddenly banked the craft hard and raced away from the scene. At first, it looked as if the man would completely retreat, but then the vehicle turned again, and launched forward as if fired from a large slingshot, only this time it was coming in at a steep bank, as if the pilot hoped to slice Quinn and Johnson to pieces with the rotor blades.

“Un-imaginative fuck,” Quinn shouted. Curtis, who had just arrived as Quinn was getting to his feet, chuckled as he had been thinking the same thing when he saw the pilot dip the blades and launch his new action-movie-inspired attack. The men both dove in opposite directions into the snow to escape the roaring blades, as the craft shot over them.

“Nice move with the AK. Now what?” Curtis yelled over the roar or the attacking chopper, as they stumbled to their feet in preparation for the next pass.

“Keep him guessing.”

Quinn sprinted away from Curtis, and the pilot now found he had to choose a target. He went for Johnson. As soon as Quinn saw, he shifted the direction of his run, back toward Johnson, and the helicopter bearing down on him. Johnson dove laterally into the snow and Quinn came into the pilot’s view long enough to catch the pilot’s eye. The chopper shifted direction wildly. Quinn sprinted again, and then dove to his right into a deep snowdrift as Johnson was again coming into the pilot’s view. The tactic was working. The pilot couldn’t decide who to chase and was getting frustrated. Finally, he decided on Quinn and stuck with him. Quinn knew it wouldn’t take long. The dance between the slicing blades and the running man continued, and Johnson took advantage of his own brief respite to run toward the shredded campsite. He grabbed a climbing rope with an aluminum carabiner attached to it and began swinging it overhead like a lasso. He really didn’t expect it to work, but thought: What the hell?

Johnson ran toward the battle scene, most of the rope trailing behind him, and a ten-foot long section of it swirling over his head with the weight of the aluminum biner. Eva thought momentarily that he looked like he was trying to become some kind of human helicopter, to battle the maddened pilot of the ARGO supply vehicle. As Quinn once again checked his running in time to dive away from the rotor blades, Johnson reached the distance he needed, and launched his makeshift bolas weapon. The rope sailed through the air, biner first, but as it approached the rotors, they sliced the rope into an array of short lengths, and the flight of the craft wasn’t even affected.

The craft aimed at Johnson next, and Quinn just managed to escape the horrible blast of the blades. Quinn was up on his feet again and running toward the helicopter as it banked. This time the pilot banked so that the rotor blades were closer to the ground. He knew Quinn would try to leap aside at the last minute, and the pilot planned to yank hard on the control stick as soon as he detected which direction his quarry would turn—which is exactly why Quinn’s plan worked. As the craft almost smashed head on into him, Quinn flung himself backwards onto the ground. He landed on his back with a bone-jarring thump, and the whirl of the blades was over his face almost instantly. A second later, Quinn reached up.

Then the world was flying by. He had grabbed the landing strut with both arms and gotten his left leg hooked around it as well. The timing was split second—but it had worked. Quinn was now hitching a free ride, just a few feet off the ground as the helicopter raced ahead and prepared to make its turn for the next attack run. As the craft began to gain altitude for its turn, Quinn released his grip. The ride had landed him on the hard packed snow close to the ruins of the campsite. Johnson saw the unusual stunt and ran a little slower, acting as a lure for the chopper. He suspected Quinn had something up his sleeve. He just hoped it worked and that it worked quickly.

Johnson and Quinn were in their 30s. Both men were at the peak of human fitness from mountaineering and non-stop training for their climbing trips. But even those in excellent physical shape can only take so much. Johnson was huffing and puffing heavily, as the sustained running and jumping had nearly worn him out. A plume of breath came out of his nose and mouth as he ran. He scanned the ground and found what he was looking for. He lunged downward, scooped up his own good-sized rock, turned, and launched it toward the cockpit of the helicopter as it roared at him. The rock smashed into the Plexiglas and sent out fracture lines, but the pilot of the craft wasn’t fazed. The damage was certainly not enough to be cause for ending the chase.

The pilot banked once again, and was planning to bring the rotor blades within inches of the ground. He was tiring of the game, and wanted the infidels to die already. As he brought the vehicle up to turn, Quinn was running away from the ruins of the camp and toward the chopper again. But this time his hands were full. In his left, he held the flare gun that had been in his pack, and in his right, he held the twin ice axes connected by the nylon webbing. He brought the flare gun up and fired it at the chopper during its bank. The flare went right into the cargo compartment. The interior burst into flame. There was no big Hollywood-style explosion as Eva had expected, as she watched the craziness from the shelter of her boulder. Just some small flames in the interior of the bird as it raced again at Quinn.

The pilot was distracted by the flame. Concerned, if not panicked. It was all Quinn had been hoping for. His next trick would be tough and would certainly be harder if the pilot was hell bent on killing him with the blades. Jason Quinn waited as long as he could. The helicopter was coming for him. Slower than it had been perhaps, but the rotor blades would carve him up at any speed. Instead of the bolas-style attack Curtis had used, Quinn just threw the axes straight at the rotor blades, aiming for the motor mount. The blades and the core of the ax shafts were made from one of the hardest substances known to man. If they won’t fuck up the damn blades, then I don’t know what will. He just stood still watching the damage unfold, waiting to see which direction he should dodge to avoid any shrapnel if there would be time. As it turned out, he decided to stand perfectly still.

The axes didn’t glance off the blades as Quinn feared they might. They plunged right into the rotation of the blades, and ripped one of them right off the mount. The nose of the craft made a sudden dip and slammed straight downward into the frozen ground. The long rotor blades all slammed the ground at the side of the bird, digging deep into the ground before snapping off, one after the other. Naturally, it all happened in the blink of an eye. Again, no huge explosion. No shrapnel. No flying debris. Just a shriek of sound like a car accident and it was over. The craft sat crunched into the ground less than three feet in front of where Quinn stood bleeding and breathing hard.

-SAMPLE-

THE SENTINEL by JEREMY BISHOP

Available for $3.99 on Nook:
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DESCRIPTION:

In the frigid waters off the Arctic Ocean, north of Greenland, the anti-whaling ship, The Sentinel, and her crew face off against a harpoon ship in search of Humpback whales. When the two ships collide and a suspicious explosion sends both ships to the bottom, the crews take refuge on what they think is a peninsula attached to the mainland, but is actually an island, recently freed from a glacial ice bridge.

Seeking shelter, the two opposing crews scour the island for resources. Instead, they find Viking artifacts, the preserved remains of an ancient structure and a stone totem warning of horrible creatures buried in the island's caves. Facing violent, frigid storms, a hungry polar bear and the very real possibility that they are stranded without hope of rescue, Jane Harper leads the two crews, who must work together to defend themselves against an ancient evil upon which the modern stories of both zombies and vampires are based upon.

The original undead are awake and hungry. Beware the Draugar.

EXCERPT:

1

Whales. What can I say about them? As an anti-whaling activist, I'm supposed to have this shtick memorized, supercharged, cocked, locked and ready to fire across the bow of anyone who looks at a whale the wrong way. But here's the simple truth: while I share the same mild affection for the world's largest creatures that most people do, I sort of just fell into this job. I needed work out of college and answered an ad in the paper. Turns out what I lacked in passion, I made up for by having an analytical mind and a knack for pretending to be someone I'm not—a lifetime of moving around the world and trying to fit in can do that to a girl.

So when I take the glass jar filled with red paint and lob it toward the Bliksem, one of Greenland's few whaling ships, I'm fairly indifferent to whether or not it hits the mark. But I'm currently incognito, so I need the effort to at least look genuine.

Red gore explodes across the Bliksem's gray hull. I let out a genuine whoop. Some suppressed side of me finds this fun, and for a moment, I understand the appeal that has thirty, mostly college dropouts, heading out to sea to combat whaling for months at a time. It feels like when I egged Jimmy Sweedler's house after he left the prom with Susan Something. A part of me hopes he got her pregnant, was forced to marry her and now lives in a trailer infested by rabid chipmunks. But the thirty-three year old, responsible part of me just feels bad for his parents who had to clean up those two dozen eggs.

Yeah, two dozen.

I had anger issues.

Still do, actually, but I can keep it in check when I'm undercover, or use it to fulfill the act.

"That's right, you whale killing sons-a-bitches!" I shout, shaking my fist at the Bliksem, which is just a hundred feet away.

Cheers rise up from the deck crew—aka: my fellow paint bombardiers—standing by my side. There are three men and two women on the deck with me—all at least ten years younger than me. In fact, other than Captain McAfee and his one-man "security" team, an Australian known only as Mr. Jackson, I am the oldest crewmember on board. Much of the young volunteer crew sport dreadlocks, not simply as a fashion statement, but also because fresh water showers are rationed while at sea. As a result, the Sentinel—the anti-whaling ship that's been my home for the past month—smells like it must have when it was an active duty Norwegian whaling ship.

"Nice shot!" shouts Greg Chase, the scrawny first mate. He's got a big awkward smile on his face, which is covered in patches of facial hair struggling to proclaim him a man. Complimenting his shaggy face is a pair of glasses that sit askew on his nose. The kid—he's twenty three, but I can't help thinking of him as a kid—looks like he should be in his parent's basement playing Dungeons & Dragons, not attacking whaling ships in the Arctic Ocean off the northern coast of Greenland. That said, his brown eyes absolutely gleam with excitement, and he's by far the smartest person on this ship, which makes him a threat. Because if anyone is going to figure out I'm not who I claim to be, it's him.

So when Chase hands me a second glass jar, I take it with a double flick of my eyebrows that says I'm getting my rocks off, too. Before my first attempt, the other deckhands had loosed a barrage of nearly fifteen paint jars, all of which fell short of the mark. So much so, that the crew of the Bliksem had begun to laugh and mock us with an assortment of hand gestures that universally translates to "cocksuckers."

They're all frowns now. Dressed in thick sweaters and winter caps, some of the Bliksem's crew leans over the rail to see my handiwork. The crimson stain, which looks eerily like blood, covers the ship's name stenciled on the side and runs in red rivulets toward the sea. It's a gruesome sight, which I suppose is the point. A dead and bled whale pulled into port doesn't do much to turn the stomach, but a ship covered in blood from the hunt might not be so kindly received. And the images being captured by the Sentinel's crew will make great PR. Bold? Yes. But effective? I'm not convinced.

But judging the effectiveness of the Sentinel's tactics isn't why I'm here. My job—my true job as an undercover investigator for the World Society for the Protection of Animals (WSPA)—is to observe and record the less noble actions, if any, of the Sentinel and her crew. The allegations leveled against the Sentinel and her captain are sullying the whaling debate and making the anti-whaling community look like zealots. So I'm here to either vindicate them, or expose them as pirates, turn my evidence and testimony over to the international and Greenland authorities and clear the good name of other anti-whaling organizations. On top of that, I'm tasked with the job of recording the effectiveness of the whaler's hunting techniques. Greenland only recently started hunting humpbacks again and their whalers are out of practice. Many whales take a half hour to die—some as long as six hours (experienced whalers can put a whale out of its misery inside of one minute). Given the dual nature of this mission, the WSPA needed someone with both undercover experience and a level head.

Translation: my lack of passion keeps me from freaking out at the sight of whale blood. Call me a cocksucker in sign language and I'll throw red paint at you—or worse if I can get my hands on you. Kill a whale and I'll take notes. I believe in the cause—in a world full of cows, why hunt endangered or even threatened creatures? But I've lived all around the world, have eaten most meats imaginable, including—gasp—whale, and I've seen more than a few animals slaughtered.

It's the circle of life.

Hakuna matata.

Pass the A1.

I haven't had a bite of meat since stepping foot on the Sentinel, which runs a vegetarian galley. I've lost five pounds and have more energy, but damn, I could go for a cheeseburger. I force the thought of cooked meat from my mind and focus on the task at hand.

With all eyes on me, I raise the jar over my head, take aim and see a tall man with long blonde hair on the deck of the Bliksem. He's pointing a video camera in my direction. I flinch away from the lens. "Shit!"

If my face is caught on camera while taking part in this act of high seas vandalism, it could destroy the validity of my testimony. I can see it now; The violence needs to stop says the fist-shaking, paint-throwing, crazy lazy. But they called me a cocksucker by thrusting their hands toward their open mouths and pushing their cheeks out with their tongues! Like this! Sorry, that was rude. We were implying you needed to brush your teeth, say the whalers. Fresh breath is important to a seafood eating culture.

"What is it?" Chase asks. "You all right?"

His concern is nice, but fades quickly when I say, "They're recording us."

"They always record us," he says. "This is what you signed up for, Harper. You're here to take a stand. To go on record against these murderers. If you go to jail, so be it. That's what we do. I've been in jail four times already."

How Chase could survive in jail is beyond me. I can think of ten raunchy inmate nicknames for the kid off the top of my head. He doesn't give me time to test them out in my mind.

"Look," he says. "I know this is your first time out. And it can be intimidating. You're not used to this kind of action. I get it. You can cover your face if you want, but eventually you'll have to make a stand and reveal yourself."

I contemplate making a joke about revealing myself, but that would either turn him on or piss him off—neither of which is something I want happening, so I hold my tongue.

He reaches past my head, pulls up the hood of my bright red jacket and ties it tight so only my eyes can be seen. "These guys are amateurs. They've never had to face us before. This isn't like the Japanese. They have no LRAD, no flash-bangs, no water cannons. They don't even have a loudspeaker to shout at us! But you've got the best arm on board and I want you to fuck their shit up!"

He's got a bigger smile now. Couple his grin with the goofy face and passion stolen from a Braveheart speech and I can't help but laugh. He takes my chuckle for excitement and I play the part. With my face concealed, I turn and send another jar sailing across the hundred-foot divide between the Sentinel and the Bliksem.

But I've put a little too much pepper on this pitch, and instead of striking the hull of the whaling ship, it soars toward the wheelhouse. The tall blond man, who looks like some kind of modern Viking, ducks, and for a moment I think I've been saved. Then the distinctive sound of a breaking window fills the air. I cringe, thankful that the cinched hood hides my face from their crew and ours.

A battle cry rings out from all around me. Not just from the crew on deck, but also from the Sentinel's wheelhouse. The whole crew has seen what I just did.

Great.

Chase gives my shoulder a hearty shake like he's Captain Blackbeard and shouts, "They're not going to want to pilot that ship for weeks!"

"From paint?" I ask. I imagine that some of the instruments got splattered in red, but I can't see how a single bottle of red paint thrown through the wheelhouse window could disable a two hundred foot ship.

Chase's smile turns fiendish, and I know I've been duped.

I curse myself for not looking at the bottle before I threw it and ask, "What was it? What did I throw?"

"Butyric acid," he says.

"Acid!"

He's laughing now, and I suddenly wonder if he's sane. The FBI might have been a better choice for this undercover mission. Of course, we're in Greenland's waters and the Sentinel is registered in the Netherlands so I think this would actually be the CIA's jurisdiction. But the CIA is too busy keeping people from blowing up buildings. They probably don't think twice about whales, unless they can beweaponized, which I'm sure someone somewhere is working on. So that leaves me, Nancy Drew of the seven seas.

"Don't worry," he says. "It's no more acidic than orange juice. It's essentially rotten butter. Slippery as hell and smells worse than a point blank blast from a skunk's ass. Worst thing you could ever smell."

Chase's nose must not work, because the people on board this ship are the worst thing I've ever smelled. I look to the Bliksem and see the wheelhouse crew stumbling and slipping out of the cabin. The tall Viking man with the camera catches an older, chubbier version of himself wearing a captain's cap, and helps the man down the stairs leading toward the main deck. I'm thankful that the man is no longer recording, but my relief is short-lived. The old man I suspect is the captain of the Bliksem collapses at the bottom of the stairs.

The cheers around me grow louder still and I feel sick to my stomach. Opposing the killing of whales does not justify harming people. It's just not the same. That's an opinion that could get me thrown off this ship, but the man could be having a heart-attack. And it could be my fault! What if the jar hit him? What if he got a dose of the vile smelling acid in his face? As panic grips me, I fear that Chase will ask me to throw more bottles. I feel so weak with worry I doubt I could do it. Thankfully, the captain's voice booms from the wheelhouse window before more bottles can be thrown.

"Time to send the message home!" Captain McAfee shouts. The man is tall and skinny, but has the voice of a baritone. He's all contradictions. Sixty-five, but full of energy. A full head of hair that's stark white. Went through knee surgery after an accident, but walks like a middle-aged mom trying to regain her figure. Preaches love for the Earth's creatures, unless you include humans. "Get away from the rail and hold on tight!"

The crew around me jump away from the rail like it's been electrified. But I stand dumbly in place.

"Harper!" Chase shouts. "Get away from the rail!"

"Why? I don't—" But then I see it. We've changed course and are closing the distance to the Bliksem at a sharp angle. The Sentinel was an ice breaking whaling ship before it was bought and outfitted for anti-whaling missions. It sports multiple hulls and its bow is strong enough to slice through icebergs. I imagine ship hulls aren't too dissimilar.

"McAfee's going to ram them?" I ask no one in particular.

But Chase has heard me and shouts, "Yes! Now get down here!" He takes hold of my jacket and yanks me back. I fall to the black deck and am pinned down by the malodorous Chase. A moment later, an impact shakes the ship. The groan of metal on metal drowns out the shouting voices of both crews and lingers for what feels like minutes.

When it ends, I'm pulled to my feet. The deck crew rushes back to the rail and lets out a cheer. I stumble up behind them and catch site of the Bliksem. Its port side hull has a long dent that isn't nearly as bad as I expected, but that's probably only because it's also designed to take on icebergs. A lesser ship would have no doubt been sunk.

I marvel that the Bliksem's crew hasn't taken aim with their harpoon or tried to ram us in return. At first I think they're incredibly patient people, but then I remember the captain. It's possible they're preoccupied with saving the man's life. In fact, as the Bliksem languishes behind, I wonder if anyone remains in the wheelhouse. The Arctic is a bad place to be on a boat without a pilot. But then I see the Viking man with a bandana wrapped around his face. He climbs the stairs to the wheelhouse and pauses at the top to look at us—at me. The Sentinel's crew shouts obscenities at the man until he enters the wheelhouse.

As the voices fade and calm returns to the Arctic sea, I let slip my true feelings, "He's fucking insane."

It's just a whisper, but Chase hears me. He spins around, eyes ablaze, and says, "I know. He's amazing."

The fact that "fucking insane" is taken as a compliment is nearly the last straw, but I manage to swallow my revolt and say, "So what next? Is that it? Mission accomplished?"

"No, no, no," he says, licking his lips like a hungry dog. "We've only just begun."

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ALSO BY JEREMY ROBINSON

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Table of Contents

Title psge

Copyright

Acknowledgments

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THE SOUND OF LOSS

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

THE SOUND OF FURY

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

SIXTY

SIXTY-ONE

SIXTY-TWO

SIXTY-THREE

SIXTY-FOUR

SIXTY-FIVE

SIXTY-SIX

SIXTY-SEVEN

SIXTY-EIGHT

SIXTY-NINE

SEVENTY

SEVENTY-ONE

SEVENTY-TWO

SEVENTY-THREE

SEVENTY-FOUR

SEVENTY-FIVE

Dear Reader,

EPILOGUE

About the Authors

Table of Contents

Title psge
Copyright
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THE SOUND OF LOSS
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
THE SOUND OF FURY
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
SEVENTY
SEVENTY-ONE
SEVENTY-TWO
SEVENTY-THREE
SEVENTY-FOUR
SEVENTY-FIVE
Dear Reader,
EPILOGUE
About the Authors