The firing didn’t return. Instead, a voice came on over a loudspeaker. “Surrender, and we’ll go easy on you.”

  Just then, Taven heard sound coming from the ledge behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw that, like the other buildings, there was a fire escape. Someone was on their way up, he realized.

  “I’ll do it,” Taven shouted. “I’ll drop the grenade. Then you won’t get the medallion. Back off!”

  The chopper didn’t move, and the sound of boots on rusty steel scaffolding continued to come closer.

  Taven moved toward the chopper. If he had to blow himself up, maybe he could take out their little toy at the same time.

  “This is your last warning,” said the pilot.

  “Or what, you’ll shoot me? Taven asked defiantly. “Then, it’d all be over. Game over for you. This is your last warning.” Taven was screaming, partly because the blades of the chopper were beating the air so loudly he didn’t think he could be heard, and partly because he needed courage, needed to convince himself that he would actually go through with it.

  Time was running out. The fire escape would soon overflow with armed men willing to do anything to get the medallion.

  Taven had killed that boy who shot Ferah, but it had been automatic, without thinking. Killing someone’s hard, but killing yourself was even harder. A bullet to the brain—that sounded downright cozy right now. But shrapnel ripping you apart limb from limb until you bled out was a jagged pill to swallow.

  This was it. This was the end of the road.

  It’s not real, he told himself. None of this is real.

  CHAPTER 23

  BEFORE DROPPING THE grenade, Taven hesitated. He was waiting for courage. Maybe he couldn’t do this after all. He tried to think of an alternative, another way out.

  “Come on, you coward,” he shouted, goading himself to act. Then without warning, a surface-to-air missile ripped through the sky and smashed into the chopper’s tail.

  Taven dropped down, and for a moment he forgot he was holding a live grenade. He strengthened his grip again as he watched the flaming aircraft spin out of control and disappear below the ledge.

  He hadn’t seen where the rocket had been fired from, but he had a hunch who had fired it.

  Not wasting time, he ran to the fire escape. He dropped the grenade over the ledge and scrambled to get behind cover.

  This time, the explosion, though just as destructive, didn’t faze Taven the way it had back at the first building. He had grown numb, or maybe he was just deaf now. “I guess that’s what ten minutes of fifty caliber machine gun fire will do to a person,” he told himself.

  He felt a new spring in his step, and it wasn’t the piston attachment. He moved to the side of the rooftop that faced the Temple and looked over. The helicopter—what was left of it—lay on the ground below in flames.

  He scanned the Temple courtyard. It was crawling with people, the anthill thoroughly kicked.

  Gunfire. But it wasn’t at him. He found the object of their fire, right as Ferah launched another missile, which hit their position, obliterating a half-dozen armed fighters.

  Taven’s heart jumped into his throat at the sight of Ferah. She’d returned, and she was levying an assault on the Temple itself.

  Quickly, he considered his options. He still wore the piston attachment, but he doubted he could survive a sheer drop to the ground. So simply skipping over the ledge was out of the question.

  He picked up his gun, reloaded, and holstered it. It was good to have it back, but it didn’t get him any closer to Ferah or the Temple. The fire escape was no longer an option, either. He’d blown it to pieces. Which left only one thing: the bow on his back.

  He pulled it around and examined it. On the quarrel’s end was a sharp point with four expanding edges that promised to stay lodged into whatever it could penetrate. On the butt of the stock were L-shaped hooks, and the spool of thin wire had a winch to tighten it.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said as he raised the bow to his shoulder and aimed. He found Ferah again. She had moved closer to the Temple, weeding out more of her assailants as she went. Taven decided to go big or go home. If the wire would reach, he’d try to hit the Temple wall itself near the ground and come down close to where Ferah was.

  The shot rang out with a metallic clang, and Taven watched in amazement as the quarrel sailed through the air, the cable in tow unwinding behind it like a black tracer. Then, the point hit the Temple wall, and a loud thud reached Taven a second later.

  It was in. He walked backward with the bow, trying to take out the slack in the cable and to find something around which he could tie it off.

  He moved toward the exhaust chimney, eyeing the metal pipes that rose from it as potential tie-offs. But the cable caught a couple yards before he could reach it.

  “Blast it,” he said softly. Then he thought. Ferah packed this for a reason. Just like the jump boots that were precisely calibrated so he would make it from building to building—she wouldn’t pack the bow with a cable that was too short for the job.

  He walked back toward the ledge, tightening the winch manually as he went. When he got to the edge, he realized the obvious solution. The L-shaped hook perfectly caught on the lip of the ledge wall, and as he continued tightening the winch, he knew this was its intended use.

  Just then, his cable wobbled wildly. He followed it with his eyes and saw someone trying to dislodge the point from the Temple wall.

  Two shots rang out and the person fell to the ground. Then Taven spotted Ferah. She looked up at him and smiled, then turned and continued fighting.

  Before he had time to talk himself out of it, to question whether this super thin cable would support his weight, Taven shimmied himself onto the ledge.

  He knew better than to look down. He struggled to reach his carabiner, the metal clasp that was attached to his harness. He pulled it forward and tried to hook it over the wire. And when he did, he lost his balance and fell off the building.

  For a split second, he thought he’d missed the wire entirely, that he was free-falling to his death, but soon he was reassured by the sound of metal on metal as he whooshed down the zipline at breakneck speed.

  His body twisted back and forth until finally stabilizing in the forward position. He was coming in fast, and he soon realized he hadn’t thought of how he would land.

  His mind raced, but he couldn’t come up with an answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ferah still fighting. She turned and yelled, “Slow down!”

  It was only then that he understood that he’d left behind a critical piece of the puzzle: the gloves. Ferah had intended for him to slow himself down with them, creating friction by gripping the wire.

  Stupidly, he raised a bare hand to test the wire, and in a motion that was faster than conscious thought, he reeled it back in instantaneous pain.

  He was out of options, and in the last moment before smashing into the Temple wall, he reflexively raised his feet to cushion the blow.

  He closed his eyes, knowing that this might be the end. Intense pressure met his feet, but to his surprise, the piston attachment cushioned the blow, and he heard the pop of a mini-explosion as the jump-tech activated and blasted him backward several yards up the rope. This time, as he descended to the wall, he lowered his feet and found a soft landing on the ground below.

  Quickly, he unclipped his carabiner and dropped to the ground, rolling behind a concrete planter box next to Ferah.

  “Never seen that before,” she said as she popped over the box and fired her weapon.

  “Didn’t exactly plan it that way,” he said. He noticed Ferah had worn heavy body armor this time. “Bring some for me?” he asked.

  She kept fighting and answered over gunfire. “After that kid picked me off, I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice.”

  Taven sat up on his knees where he could look over the planter box, which was a pretty good place to take cover—earth and concrete stop most bullets pretty effectively. The only downside was the ornamental grasses standing a foot above the planters that obstructed his view. He had to look over them, and he realized that when he did, he wasn’t behind cover, just a flimsy curtain of grass.

  Ferah had made quick work of the people near the Temple gate, but across the courtyard was a stronghold of half a dozen Hudsonites, held up behind a veranda wall.

  Taven sat back down and looked at Ferah as she continued her attack, periodically firing overtop the planter box. She was beautiful even now, even with all the heavy tactical gear and clothing. And Taven had to remind himself who and what she was.

  “You came back,” he said softly enough that he didn’t think she heard him.

  “You gonna help, or do I have to do all this myself?” she said sternly.

  Ferah was in charge again, he realized. “Yeah, what should I do?”

  “Lay down cover fire while I flush them out,” she instructed.

  Taven nodded and readied his weapon.

  “Go!” she shouted as she darted left and disappeared.

  He popped up over the box and fired, his aim wild as he squinted and hoped no one shot back. He wasn’t a good shot, never seeming to get over the sound and recoil enough to steady himself. He hoped what he lacked in quality could be made up for with quantity as he finished off another magazine.

  He crouched behind the planter and exchanged mags as fast as he could, and he realized he was down to his last magazine.

  When he surfaced, he began to fire, but caught himself; Ferah stood in his way, her arms raised to keep him from shooting.

  She got them all? Apparently so. He stood and grinned, but this time she didn’t return the smile but looked past him into the distance.

  “That’s it for now,” she said, “but we need to hurry.”

  Taven knew she was right. Those buildings he had jumped had put some distance between him and the rest of that gang that was after him and the medallion. But they could reappear at any time.

  “Let’s go,” Ferah said as she turned and headed toward the Temple gate.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE MASSIVE MEDIEVAL wooden door looked like it belonged on the other side of a moat. It was impressive, for sure, but Taven didn’t understand why this was so impenetrable, why there was a special key necessary to open it. Why all the charades? Why all the insurmountable odds in getting inside the Temple?

  Ferah reached the door first. She turned and said, “This part’s all you.”

  Taven felt for his medallion. It was strange how quickly it had become a part of him, an extra appendage he no longer consciously noticed. He pulled it out from under his shirt, and then in what felt like a mistake, he removed the medallion and lanyard from around his neck.

  He stared at the medallion. It didn’t seem so remarkable, unworthy of all the killing and violence that surrounded it. But, perhaps, it wasn’t the medallion but what was behind this door that mattered. He was there to meet Cat, warn her of the Hudson’s danger, and get the heck out of Dodge. But what did all these other people want with her, with the green-eyed woman?

  Just like some illustration from a children’s story book, the door with its massive handle and keyhole looked so large only a dragon could open it.

  Taven, unsure how this all worked, inserted his medallion into the keyhole. To his surprise, the hole sucked in the medallion—lanyard and all—like an old-fashioned vending machine eating coins. Then the door vibrated, emitting an audible rumble, and turned into the same translucent color as all the portals Taven had used.

  “Stick your hand in to keep it open,” Ferah instructed. “I’ll go in, and you follow.”

  Just then, gunfire sounded from behind them, and a volley of bullets riddled the Temple wall all around them.

  “Hurry,” she said.

  Taven obeyed, too fearful of the returning danger to worry about what lay behind the door. Ferah jumped through.

  “Hey, wait!” yelled a voice from behind, but Taven knew not to hesitate. He jumped through and experienced the time/color/sound warp he had come to expect, but this one seemed to last longer as if he was traveling a greater distance.

  When he came through, he was greeted with the sound of dripping water. Then his eyesight returned, and he realized he was in an impossible structure, one that could never exist inside the Temple façade they’d entered.

  “Over here,” Ferah said.

  He looked for her but couldn’t see her. Instead, he noticed sky lights, beautiful sunshine dripping down from above into a series of pools and fountains tucked in between a lush garden of hanging plants. If any of this was real, he thought, it would count as the eighth wonder of the world.

  “Where are you?” he asked quietly. It seemed inappropriate to yell. And, satisfactorily, Ferah heard him.

  “Around the corner,” she answered.

  This time he tracked her voice and found the corresponding intersection. The stone walls were elaborate, slip-stone marble that could only be constructed by hand over decades, maybe centuries.

  He followed the interior wall, touching it gently as he walked. It felt real, more than real: the detail of each cut, the light green moss up inside the cracks where adequate moisture collected.

  More impossibility—he noticed the sounds of gunfire were gone. Maybe their assailants knew it was hopeless to continue pursuing them through the gate, but Taven had a hard time believing that bunch would just lay their weapons down and go home. He could picture them unloading their magazines at the Temple gate and, perhaps, even turning their fire on each other in frustration. Still, the interior of the Temple was quiet except for the soft sounds of water.

  He came to the corner and exited the garden room. This passageway—still big enough for giants to traverse—was darker. But it opened up into another large room lit by stained glass windows like some ancient cathedral.

  “What do you think?” Ferah asked, raising her hands and smiling. She stood near the entrance of a grand hall.

  “I think it’s impossible,” he answered.

  “Nothing’s impossible,” she said, her smile gone.

  He watched as she walked the length of a long, ornate woven rug that contained all manner of iconic tapestry.

  “Should we be walking on that?” he asked.

  “Rugs are meant to be walked on,” she answered simply. He noticed Ferah was wearing an attractive thigh-length skirt, a thin cotton shirt and leather sandals. She removed her sandals and began walking barefoot. It was only then he realized their clothes had changed when they had passed through the portal and he was wearing linen pants and a lightweight, untucked shirt.

  Taven would have argued with her, suggesting that she should be more careful, but he was too awestruck by the room itself and the object Ferah was approaching.

  The hall had vaulted ceilings, the kind with wooden trusses and impossible spans. Again, the realism seemed like too much for a computer-generated construct. But simultaneously it was too fantastic for the real world. At the end of the hall was an elevated landing with two golden chairs with red velvet upholstery. One was larger and higher than the other.

  “This is no temple,” he said excitedly.

  “No?” she asked, her back turned.

  “This is a king’s throne room.”

  “Queen’s, you mean.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he said, still bewildered. As he studied the stained glass and tapestry—they seemed to tell a story, one he couldn’t quite decipher—Ferah climbed the two steps and sat on the larger throne.

  “Do you think it suits me?” she asked. Taven turned and saw her sitting there, her smooth skinned legs crossed neatly and her upper body leaning on one elbow. She was lovely, and Taven knew she’d haunt him when this was all over.

  “Absolutely regal,” he pronounced.

  “Yeah, I think I could get used to it.”

  “Why couldn’t your beach house just look like this?” he teased.

  “Not a bad idea at all,” she said, her smile returning.

  This flirtatious moment, this little fantasy of theirs—it was a recurring event. He enjoyed it, though he knew it wasn’t real, knew she wasn’t real. But there was always a saturation point when he couldn’t let himself go any further, an instance when he realized they had a mission and he was wasting precious time.

  “So, where is she?” he asked.

  Ferah seemed to notice his change in attitude. Her smile vanished, and she stood up out of the chair and came to him.

  “We came to the right place, obviously,” Ferah said. “If she isn’t here, there’s no way to track her down.”

  Taven started to ask Ferah if she had done all this before, but he remembered that she was a unique CG entity, one that was created when he entered the construct. But she did know things, things he didn’t.

  “So what?” he protested. “We just wait for her? How long will that take?”

  Ferah shook her head and bit her lip. “There’s just no way to know. Could be days. Could be years. It’s as uncertain as anything dependent on the choices of a free-minded, free-willed individual.”

  Those words, that jargon irked Taven. It sounded too much like this construct’s propaganda. “Can’t we call her or something? I mean, surely this place has other ways of communicating besides an elaborate siege of a castle.” His voice rose in frustration. “This is life or death I’m talking about. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  Ferah drew closer to him and put one hand on his chest. It was a calming gesture, and he remembered her doing the same thing back at the lake. He knew it was manufactured, but it worked and he didn’t care.

  “All’s not lost,” Ferah said.

  “Yeah, well it looks pretty crappy to me.”

  “There’s still time.”

  “Says who? I haven’t seen a blasted clock since I’ve been in here.”

  “I’m just saying,” she looked into his eyes, and he was caught by them again. “There are alternatives. We don’t have to suffer like this. Cat’s in the construct somewhere. We could stay and wait. We could go hunt for her. Or,” she moved her body close to his, “we could do something else entirely.”