Stone grabbed the man by the back of the neck and twisted. The sound of falling dominoes echoed in the room as his vertebrae snapped one after the other.

  “Thanks, but I’ve still got lead,” Stone said.

  “I understand.”

  Stone left the cabin and seemed to float across the deck. Freya followed, hugging the shadows where she could. They approached the front of the yacht and Stone made a motion toward a door. Freya saw the door flash open for a split second, and then Stone disappeared inside. Before she could reach the door, Freya heard several crashes, the last of which was the result of a man being hurled through the bridge window. His broken body landed in Galveston Bay.

  Then the bridge filled with gunfire.

  Freya broke through the door, crashing into a man firing a pistol. The room was almost forty feet long, spanning two floors. Stone was toward the helm at the front. Four men stood at the back firing at him from behind a table, but each shot missed. Centered or not, Freya knew that Stone could not continue to dodge that many bullets in the open for long.

  She dove into the midst of the men, sliding razor-sharp fingernails deep into their backs. Their hearts began beating erratically and then stopped. One of the men tried to fire his pistol one last time, but his shot went wild, striking the ceiling. Freya slapped at the back of his throat and moved to the next man, who was aiming at Stone from the corner. She grabbed his hand and squeezed until the metal seemed to merge with flesh and bone. His scream was loud enough to get the attention of the men in the center of the room.

  Seeing Freya at the back and Stone at the front, two of the men turned and began firing at Freya. She ducked behind a table at the back. One of the men decided to target the table itself and Freya felt the impact of each bullet as it chipped away at the expensive oak.

  Stone had finished the last of the men in front when Freya entered. Her sudden and loud appearance had startled him to the point that one of the bullets ripped through the sleeve of his shirt, nicking his arm. He returned his concentration on surviving, but there were too many men in too many places. Stone dodged behind the wheel and looked over to assess Freya’s situation. She was trapped in the back.

  Freya felt the first bullet tear through the table four inches in front of her face. She crawled behind the body of one of the men who had fallen behind the table, but when she entered, the men had seen that she did not have a gun. It would not be long before one of the men simply ran back to her position.

  “Offense!” she heard Sunny Joe yell in her mind. “You can’t control a situation unless you’re on offense!”

  Seeing that Stone was occupied up front, one of the men reloaded his pistol and ran toward the table. Freya saw him from behind the dead man she was using as a shield, but before he could fire, his head disappeared from his body.

  Stone had ripped the wheel from its floor mount in the helm and hurled it at him. The wooden steering wheel tore through the air too fast to be seen.

  Freya peeked from behind the table. She never saw the gunman approaching her from behind.

  But Stone did.

  The moment froze as he weighed his options. He dropped to the floor and hurled himself past the men who were firing on him, taking two of them out as he passed. Stone focused on the gunman who was aiming at Freya. There was no way he could reach Freya or the gunman in time.

  As if in slow motion, Stone saw the gunman lift his rifle to his shoulder and pull the trigger. The bullet spiraled towards Freya’s head. Stone knew that while she was uncentered, she could not move out of the way quickly enough. She was going to die unless Stone could stop the bullet from reaching its grim and inevitable destination.

  Stone leapt directly into the bullet’s path, hoping that his bulletproof vest would take the hit. His body began to twist out of the way, but Stone concentrated. At first, his body hesitated and he twisted back, but Stone willed himself into the path of the bullet. He had often compared the feeling of dodging bullets to riding a roller coaster. His body took control and he was bounced one way and then another in whatever direction needed to avoid the bullets—but now it felt as if he had been hurled off the roller coaster and into a wall.

  The bullet caught the inside of his left arm an inch from his own bulletproof vest. Stone felt the intense heat of the bullet as it seared and tore through his skin. He could feel it inside of him, and there was no escape. The bullet struck an artery and Stone instantly lost control of his body.

  He crashed hard against the wall, and he did not get up.

  Chapter 17

  From a nighttime satellite’s perspective, Virginia Beach no longer existed. The brightly-lit city was now pitch black, as everything from traffic lights to water pumps had powered down over the past few hours. Emergency teams had tried their best to restore power. The controls had all been computerized years ago, and until the computer system was either repaired or replaced, no one in Virginia Beach was going to see a single watt of electricity.

  Looting patterns changed once people realized that the televisions they were stealing were useless without power. They began to target grocery stores more than electronics shops. Police stood in busy intersections directing traffic with flashlights. The Salvation Army had donated several generators to local hospitals. Churches and synagogues had opened their doors to the needy. Most of the community was coming to each other’s aid.

  But they were still in the dark.

  Ben tapped into ground crew communications, trying to understand what was happening. The system itself was not broken. It had just been turned off, with no way of turning it on again. The electrical grid had become so dependent on computers that if they could not restore the computer controls, the entire grid would have to be replaced. That would take several months and millions of dollars and Virginia Beach did not have that much time.

  One of Ben’s monitors was dedicated to coverage of the blackout. Reporters from all over the country had descended on the newly tagged “Dark City” to cover the mayhem. To keep the short attention span of their viewers, one of the networks set up a crawl at the bottom of the screen to keep a running tally of injuries and deaths. Injuries were reported in a blue box at the bottom left of the screen. It made a swooping sound and glowed every time another injury was reported, while deaths were tallied in a red box at the bottom right. It made a deep thumping sound and shook each time the number of deaths increased.

  So far, injuries outnumbered deaths 34 to 5, but the anchor assured his viewers that if they continued watching their special coverage, he was certain that the numbers would go up.

  Chapter 18

  Thursday, 1:26 PM

  Freya was confused as she saw Stone dash toward her, his body twisting as it unconsciously attempted to dodge the bullet. At the last moment, instead of moving out of the way, Stone’s body moved directly into the path of the bullet. Unable to do anything more than watch the bullet strike her brother, something in Freya snapped.

  Instead of moving for cover, she found herself moving toward Stone. Once he was down, he would be helpless against the gunman.

  And Freya was not going to let that happen.

  She leapt over Stone as he hit the wall. The gunman was already drawing a bead on Stone. Her arms flailed wildly, distracting the gunman. He started to aim his gun at her again and even pulled the trigger once, but the bullet passed by harmlessly.

  Freya landed in front of the man and without thinking, grabbed him by the head. She hurled him toward the last two gunmen, snapping his neck. The sight of his soaring body caused the men to raise their hands in defense. Freya jumped in front of the men. Without the precision of her Sinanju center, the blows were eruptions of brute force. She began at the shoulders, relieving the men of their weapons. The follow up punches splintered ribcages and pulverized hip bones before the gunmen even had time to fall.

  The loosely-connected bags of meat plopped to the floor and Freya ran back to Stone.

  “Two more…around the corner,” Stone said, handing Freya his gun.

  Freya pushed the gun back into Stone’s hands and pulled a couple of steel bearings from her pocket.

  She slowly approached the corner, listening for any signs of life. Her un-centered hearing was not good enough to tell what was around the corner. Fortunately for her, Stone’s was.

  “They’re hiding behind something. I can hear them wheezing,” Stone said, bringing himself to a sitting position. He grabbed his shoulder. “Careful, sis. We need one of them alive if possible.”

  Freya readied one of the bearings in each hand. From her vantage point, she could see several boxes readied for shipping. The men must be behind one of the boxes. Freya looked around at the scaffolding in the ceiling and then to the far side of the room.

  Fasil and Jaleel hid behind separate shipping containers, both holding grenades in their hands.

  “The American fight like demons,” Fasil said. “He dodges our bullets as if they were stones. Let us see if he can dodge shrapnel.”

  “Shush, Fasil! I think Muhammad killed him,” Jaleel said. “The gunfire has stopped.”

  “Then why has Muhammad not returned?” Fasil asked, surprised that his stupid cousin was chosen to be a part of the glorious branch of the family that would topple America.

  Fasil heard a sharp click and turned to see Jaleel laying down, taking a nap. Jaleel was as stupid as his mother. He had no idea why his uncle married her. But Jaleel was not sleeping. Fasil noticed the pool of blood seeping from Jaleel’s back and looked all around. He had not heard a gun, not even a silencer, which were not as quiet as American movies made them appear to be.

  Jaleel pulled the pin on his grenade. If they took him out, he would take them all with him.

  When he heard the next sound, he looked down to see a small object embedded into the back of his forearm. It was not a bullet, though it was metal. The object had struck so fast that his body had not yet recognized the pain. What he did recognize after seeing the object in his arm was that it had caused his hand to involuntarily open.

  Fasil tried to throw the grenade away, but his fingers were still stuck, so he began flailing his arm to shake the grenade off his fingers. He succeeded just before the grenade detonated, giving him time to partially hide from the explosion. The grenade shredded his left shoulder and shrapnel embedded into his ribs. Fasil staggered behind another crate, coughing blood. A thin, blonde-haired girl appeared in front of him.

  After expecting camouflaged soldiers, she seemed surreal. Was he dead? Was this the first of his seventy-two virgins?

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Freya,” she said. “And I need some information.”

  “Don’t take another step!” Fasil yelled.

  “I don’t think you want to die,” Freya said. “I just need you to answer a few questions and we will leave you in peace.”

  Fasil could not believe what he was hearing or seeing. “Where are the soldiers who killed my brethren?” he demanded.

  “Oh, it’s just the two of us,” a voice said from behind, grabbing Fasil by the back of his shirt.

  Fasil turned to see the young American holding him. Blood stained the left side of his shirt, but he did not act as if he were hurt. Fasil screamed, but Stone grabbed him by the face and twisted. The shock to Fasil’s spine was enough to drop him to the floor. The pain continued as the American continued talking.

  “I’m not going to ask nicely,” he began. “Your friend shot me, and I’m not too happy about that.”

  Stone closed his eyes for a second and grabbed a breath. Freya raced to his side. Stone motioned for her to stay back. He had to show strength.

  “You get one chance, and only one chance, to answer my questions,” Stone said.

  Fasil watched the American carefully. His boastful words tried to cover the extent of his wounds, but Fasil knew it would be a matter of time before he fell.

  “I want to know about your…network,” Stone said, searching for the right words to say. “Sleeper cells.”

  “I will tell you everything you wish to know, Infidel,” Fasil said, smiling. He would take his time with long, bloated answers, leaving him with only the girl to contend with. Even wounded by a grenade, he could easily take out a skinny American girl.

  “Our network consists of four families. We have lived in this wicked country for years beneath your very noses! We follow the lead of the Ghost Imam.”

  Stone blinked twice. The words were blending together. He began coughing, but could not regain his center.

  Fasil smiled even more.

  Stone rubbed his eyes when Fasil made his move. Fasil leapt, punching Stone in the stomach long enough for him to grab a detonator from the counter.

  “You will now die!” Fasil said, pressing the button.

  But the signal from his brain never reached his thumb. In fact, it never reached his hand, because Freya was now holding his severed hand, detonator and all.

  Freya’s calm face became a storm. Fasil tried to run, but she shattered his shins with a swift kick. His body went into shock. He tried to walk, but his legs only twitched in response.

  “I think it is time that you saw your virgins,” Freya said, grabbing Fasil by the back of his shirt. She dragged him to the edge of the ship and tossed him over. The seawater burnt his exposed wounds like acid. Fasil tried to swim, but with only one working arm, he only remained afloat for a few seconds.

  Freya scooped up Stone in her arms and carried him back to their boat. She lowered him down with one hand as she crawled down. As soon as he hit the boat, Stone collapsed. Freya began furiously paddling the canoe with one hand and dialed Ben on her cell phone with the other. He did not have time to say hello.

  “Stone has been shot!” Freya said. “I cannot stop the bleeding!”

  Ben took a quick moment to locate Freya and stabbed a few quick buttons on his keyboard.

  “Listen very carefully, Freya. This is what you’re going to do,” he said.

  Chapter 19

  Paul Moore had never been Sunny Joe’s friend, but he never relished conflict with him. He had seen Sunny Joe’s father physically deal with an uncooperative council, and was thankful that Sunny Joe listened to the council at least some of the time. Still, Paul had run across him too many times not to feel the presence that all Masters projected when they were angry.

  The first time he felt it was from Sunny Joe’s father, Joseph Roam. The former head of the council had actually yelled at him in public. Joseph did not yell back, he merely lowered his head and even though Paul was not the target of the gaze, something made him feel small, like a child. The only thing keeping him from running was the knowledge that running would not save him. Joseph merely took one step toward the head of the council and placed one finger in the center of his chest. The council leader dropped to the floor, unconscious, and Joseph demanded a recount of votes.

  The formerly unanimous vote instantly switched to Joseph’s side.

  Paul had never wanted to be the leader of the council, but once he was appointed, he did not run from his duties. The problem, Paul realized, was that the Sinanju tribe was shrinking. Tribal deaths outpaced births three-to-one, and they were constantly losing young people to big cities that offered good paying jobs. Paul knew that unless something changed, the time would soon come when he would have to do the unthinkable and try to remove Sunny Joe from office. He did not know if the council had such power, but if something was not done, and done quickly, it would no longer matter. There would no longer be a Sinanju tribe to defend.

  Paul entered Sunny Joe’s office and he gave a cautious smile and nod to Mick, who was sitting behind the counter. Mick was a realist like Paul, but his friendship with Sunny Joe had blinded him to Sunny Joe’s deficiencies.

  “They finished setting up for the ceremony?” Mick asked.

  “It’s taken most of the day just to clean up the council chamber. First time in memory they swept and mopped the floor. Old Man Jenkins even washed the stained-glass window,” Paul said, referring to the only piece of stained glass on the reservation: a four-foot-tall window on the back wall that had been purchased by the Arizona government in an early effort to add ‘culture’ to the building. Located on the western side of the building, it cast an eerie blue, green and gold swatch of light over the rest of the chamber late in the day.

  “Leroy actually working? That’s monumental enough for me to record,” Mick joked.

  “Need to speak with Sunny Joe,” Paul said.

  Mick finished typing the sentence he was on before giving his full attention to Paul. “I just hope it’s good news,” Mick said, motioning Paul to go back.

  “Dunno if Sunny Joe will think so, but it’s good news for the tribe,” Paul said.

  Mick followed Paul as he knocked on Sunny Joe’s door. Sometimes being the tribal records keeper was not a fun job. He knew of the tension between Paul and Sunny Joe and recognized the look on his face.

  “Come in, Paul,” Sunny Joe said, recognizing the heartbeat on the other side of the door.

  Paul opened the door and sat in one of the chairs in front of Sunny Joe’s desk. Mick silently sat in the other and turned on his tape recorder. Sunny Joe smiled and nodded at Mick, then his face lost any pretense of kindness as he faced Paul.

  “What is it this time, Paul?” Sunny Joe asked, staring a hole through him.

  Paul was shorter than Sunny Joe, but he had a much stronger frame. Normally, he would not be intimidated, but height and strength meant nothing to Sinanju.

  “It’s about the Coushatta boy,” Paul said. “The council is going to give him sanctuary. By the end of the day, he will be Sinanju.”

  Sunny Joe leaned forward. “And you didn’t think about asking me first?” he asked.

  “We already know where you stand, Sunny Joe,” Paul said. “And even though you disagree with the council, we expect you to abide by our decision.”