More than that Jones found herself thinking about Blackley, about the manner in which she had betrayed him, and felt a sudden sense of sorrow. Tears fell, the citadel shimmered, and the work continued.

  HELL HILL

  José Amocar was running from something he couldn’t see but was deathly afraid of. There were people, lots of people, and they formed a passageway through which he was forced to pass. They pointed at him, made comments about the way he looked, and laughed.

  The agent glanced back over his shoulder, but there was nothing to see. The monster was invisible. Amocar could hear it, however—and ran even faster. Anything to escape the wheezing sound of its carrion-tainted breath and the steady slap, slap, slap of its enormous feet…

  Amocar awoke with a jerk. The .9mm was in his hand. Blood pounded in his head, his body felt cold, and his body shook as if possessed by a fever.

  The agent managed to sit up, placed his back against a cold metal wall, and examined his surroundings. The cube, one of thousands made suddenly available when the majority of the slaves were marched away, was part of the stack called Flat Top. The light, such as it was, issued from a ceiling-hung battery-powered lamp.

  Judging from all the stuff lying around, it appeared as though the previous occupants had been caught by surprise and forced to leave their belongings behind. Then, as sure as night follows day, those who remained looted the place.

  Amazingly enough the woman was still alive. She made a noise, or tried to, but the ball gag made that impossible. Amocar had forced the rubber sphere between her jaws and employed a blue bandanna to tie it in place. Her eyes beseeched him, begging Amocar to show her some mercy, but he had seen such looks before and found them easy to ignore.

  The woman had been pretty once… but not anymore. Hak-Bin had given the female to Amocar as a reward… to be enjoyed in whatever way he saw fit. She hung where he had left her, naked except for the tatters of the clothes he had cut away from her body, spread-eagled so that every aspect of her anatomy was exposed. Her hair was matted, her face was bruised, and her hands were blue from loss of circulation. Whip marks crisscrossed her body, her nipples had been removed, and a combination of dried blood, sperm, and urine coated the inside surface of her thighs. The place stank, something Amocar hadn’t noticed before, but suddenly found repugnant.

  The agent fought a headache as he struggled to his feet. What time was it anyway? Amocar looked at his watch, swore, and stumbled toward the door. Jack-shit Manning was off on some stupid mission or other, which meant he would have to fill in. Not a problem if it weren’t for Mr. “this is how we did it in the army” Kell, who would not only watch every move Amocar made, but rat him out the moment the opportunity presented itself. Amocar had his hand on the hatch, and was about to push it open, when he remembered the woman. There was no law enforcement, none at all, but it would be stupid to leave the bitch alive.

  The agent turned, drew the hunting knife from its sheath, and returned to his victim. He showed her the blade, saw the fear in her eyes, and laughed. Slowly, so she could have time to think about it, he brought the point down onto the base of her throat.

  The woman shivered and tried to pull back.

  The knife tip left a thin crimson line as Amocar drew it down over her chest, between her bloodied breasts, and down onto the hard flat plane of her stomach.

  Then, with a sharp jab, he opened her up. A length of intestine slithered out, Amocar saw the shock of it hit her eyes, and jerked the knife free.

  Amocar had an erection by then, but time was short, so he wiped the blade on what remained of her blouse and left the cube. It fronted on one of the many terraces that stair-stepped their way up the stack’s flat top. The agent grimaced as the early-morning light hit his eyes, took a quick look around, and hurried off.

  Laundry flapped in the wind, a dog barked somewhere nearby, and the tang of woodsmoke hung in the air. The stack seemed unusually quiet, however… like a ghost town dozing in the sun. Ji-Hoon, who had been led to the location by one of the street urchins now in her employ, arrived in time to see the other agent depart. A glance at her watch was sufficient to tell her why. El Segundo was supposed to be on duty.

  Curious as to what Amocar had been up, to Ji-Hoon slipped her latest ten-year-old operative a pack of gum, cautioned the boy to stay well back, and told him to follow the agent home. Then, confident that she knew where Amocar would be for the next twelve hours or so, Ji-Hoon ducked under a clothesline, nodded to a dull-eyed woman, and approached the cube. Hinges groaned as the wind sought to move the hatch, flies buzzed as if eager to enter, and the smell explained why.

  The .9mm filled Ji-Hoon’s hand as she pushed her way into the barely lit murk. That’s when she saw the woman, the blue-black intestines that dangled from her abdomen, and battled the rising nausea. “You bastard,” she whispered hoarsely. “You filthy rotten bastard.”

  Maybe it was the sound of Ji-Hoon’s voice, or perhaps it was the pain, but whatever the reason the woman groaned.

  The ex–FBI agent had assumed that the woman was dead and gave an involuntary start. Her first thought was to call 911—but that was no longer possible. Even Dr. Sool was gone.

  Ji-Hoon returned the weapon to its holster and forced herself to step in closer. The ceiling-hung lantern provided barely enough light to see by. The agent felt nauseous as she released the gag, pried the saliva-covered ball out of the woman’s mouth, and threw it away. The words were so faint they could barely be heard. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll cut you down,” Ji-Hoon said, “and go for help.”

  “No!” the woman croaked emphatically, “in the name of God no. You have a gun—I saw it. Please shoot me.”

  Ji-Hoon looked into the woman’s eyes, saw the pain there, and knew she was correct. There was little to nothing that anyone could do for her. “Are you sure?”

  The woman managed to nod. “The man who did this… will you get him?”

  “If it’s the last thing I ever do,” Ji-Hoon answered grimly. “You have my word on it.”

  “Good,” the woman said. “I’m ready.”

  Outside, beyond the confines of the metal walls, the shot made a dull thump. Startled by the noise, a bird fluttered into the air. It circled the stack—and flew away.

  NEAR MOUNT VERNON, WASHINGTON

  The field was flat, open, and right next to the freeway. Just the sort of spot the Saurons liked best. In spite of the gradually warming weather, it was cold at night. That’s why the slaves had built more than a dozen large bonfires, all fueled by siding torn from the same barn.

  Deac Smith and his fellow reenactors knew that multiple small fires would actually be more useful where heat and cooking were concerned, but were pleased with the large infernos nonetheless. Focused as they were on preventing escapes, and with no external threats to bother them, the Kan had a tendency to look in at the bonfires. Maybe the light would screw with their night vision, and maybe it wouldn’t. All a guy could do was hope. He turned to the man at his side. Both lay on their bellies about fifty yards beyond the alien perimeter. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  Manning, who had ridden a horse for the first time in his life, and walked for another ten miles after that, hurt in places he never had before. “Absolutely… I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Then you’re just as crazy as I thought you were,” Smith replied. “Remember, one hour, that’s all we have.”

  Manning grinned. A camo stick had been used to darken his face, but his teeth gleamed white. “So, what are we waiting for? An engraved invitation?”

  Smith chuckled, whispered, “Follow me,” and low-crawled in the direction of the encampment. The security chief followed. There were other resistance fighters, roughly thirty of them, hidden out in the darkness. They would provide fire support if that became necessary—but Smith hoped it wouldn’t. The whole point of the exercise was to access conditions within the encampment. An attack, if any, would come later.

  Careful to keep his head down, the resistance leader followed the edge of an overgrown irrigation ditch in toward the fires. A good way to sneak past humans, but the Kan weren’t human. Rather than walk one section of the perimeter the way a human sentry would, the Saurons jumped from point to point, rarely landing on the same spot twice. That made the aliens unpredictable, which was to say dangerous, which was to say scary. Now, as the two men approached the Kan perimeter, Smith paused. Manning, elbowing his way along behind, had little choice but to do likewise.

  A gentle breeze sprang up, caused the bonfires to shiver, and blew smoke to the northeast. Smith watched the nearest bug complete a jump, pause to take a look around, and bounce into the air.

  Moving quickly in hopes of getting to the next way point before the Kan returned, the ex-Ranger left the protection of the irrigation ditch and squirmed into the open. The earth was relatively soft and gave under his elbows.

  Then, with relative safety still a good fifty feet ahead, Smith was forced to pause. The Kan with responsibility for that sector had arrived at the edge of another warrior’s turf. He landed, turned, and went airborne again.

  Smith knew that if he could see the bug, then the bug could see him, especially if he moved. That’s why he froze into immobility, hoped Manning would do the same, and felt his heart pound in his chest.

  The Kan, an individual named Wob-Ree bounced, and took off again. Like his peers the warrior had been trained to survey the surrounding area from the apex of his jump, not from the ground. The fires, which naturally drew his attention, fell away. Then, from a perspective some twenty-five feet up in the air, Wob-Ree eyed the ground below.

  Smith watched the alien rise, ran a quick calculation regarding the bug’s likely trajectory, and gritted his teeth. Now, based on the way things appeared, and contrary to established patterns, it looked as if the godless spawn of the devil was about to land where he had the last time! Right on top of them! All they could do was wait.

  Wob-Ree felt gravity kick in, watched the fires rise, felt his feet hit the ground. His knees flexed to absorb the shock, the Kan scanned the darkness off to his right, but saw nothing. Feral slaves lived out in the woods, everyone knew that, so it was best to be careful.

  Smith held his breath. One of the Kan’s enormous flat feet was so close that he could have touched it. The radio clipped to the bug’s battle harness burped static followed by silence. Then, like an answer to the resistance leader’s prayers, the warrior was gone.

  Eager to escape any chance of another close encounter of the sort they had just experienced—Smith scuttled his way forward. Manning, who felt at least ten years older, followed.

  Then, having passed between the outermost fires, the infiltrators could finally stand. Both men wore blue ear tags and carried handguns beneath their raggedy clothing. The application of two wet wipes apiece was sufficient to remove the camo stick markings.

  So numerous were the slaves that they had little difficulty blending in. Most of the people were gathered around the bonfires, and it seemed natural to drift from one to the next. Smith paid close attention to what he heard. There was anger, which beat the heck out of passivity, and a lot of rumors. Some, like those that spoke of a coordinated resistance movement, were even true.

  Manning’s task was a good deal easier. All he had to do was ask the first person he ran into where Dr. Sool had established her clinic and was directed toward a distant fire. Hearing that, and knowing that Seeko was still alive, filled Manning with joy. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to themselves, the two men edged in that direction.

  Meanwhile, not far away, Sool sat on the back of a cart, accepted a cup of tea from an admirer, and nodded her thanks. The ceramic mug was hot, and it felt good to wrap her hands around its warmth. The closest fire, which was about fifteen feet away, crackled and threw a fountain of sparks up into the air.

  Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, the number of people who showed up for sick call had been relatively light. The not-so-pleasant truth was that thousands of slaves had died of various diseases, been killed in construction accidents, or simply murdered by the Kan. Those who survived had a tendency to be young, resilient, and lucky. The net result was fewer people at sick call.

  “So,” a familiar voice said, “a penny for your thoughts.”

  Sool felt her heart leap, turned in the direction of the sound, and spilled hot tea on her thigh. She didn’t notice the pain. Manning laughed as the doctor dropped the mug, jumped off the cart, and threw her arms around his neck. Their lips met, Sool felt all the things she hoped she might feel, and heard the sound of applause. That’s when the kiss ended and the twosome turned to discover that Smith, Dixie, and more than a dozen blues were grinning appreciatively and clapping their hands.

  Sool blushed, Manning laughed, and took her hand.

  “That’s enough,” Dixie proclaimed, “let’s give them some space.”

  There were whistles, followed by a catcall or two, but the bystanders obeyed. Slowly, hand in hand, the twosome walked out to the point where firelight surrendered to darkness. “So,” Sool said, looking up into Manning’s face, “to what do I owe this visit? And how did you get here anyway?”

  The security chief shrugged. “I was worried about you, very worried, and Franklin allowed me to come. As for the how, well, let’s just say that I now know why they invented cars. Horses are a pain in the butt.”

  Sool laughed. “Now that you’re here—how will you get out?”

  Manning checked his watch. “You can expect some fireworks in about twenty minutes. That’s when the Deacon and I will slip away.”

  The security chief took her hands in his. They felt small and vulnerable. “Please, Seeko, come with us.”

  Sool liked the way he said her name… as if it were something special. “I’d like to, Jack, I really would, but my duty lies here.”

  Manning nodded. “I kind of figured you’d say something like that. Okay, how ‘bout we break everyone out?”

  Sool frowned. “You could do that?”

  Manning shrugged. “Timing is important. That’s why Franklin put the resistance on hold. Move too early, and the bugs have the time to respond. Move too late, and everybody dies. So why not now?”

  “Wouldn’t Franklin be upset?”

  “Probably, but let’s do it anyway.”

  Sool shook her head. “No, Jack, not for me.”

  Manning looked back toward the fires. “I’m here because of you, I admit that, but it doesn’t change the facts. It would be a lot easier to free these people now rather than later.”

  “True,” Sool admitted, “but the Kan would hunt them down. Many would die.”

  “Many will die anyway,” Manning responded, “on the job, or during the slaughter.”

  Sool stared intently into Manning’s eyes. He was different from what she had always assumed she wanted, yet absolutely right. She raised one of his hands and kissed it. “You may be correct, but your motives are questionable. Put your case to the president. Get his agreement, and you’ll have mine.”

  Sool was correct, Manning knew that, and grinned. “You’re a pain in the ass… did anybody every tell you that?”

  “People remind me from time to time.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Kiss me.”

  Manning kissed her, felt her lips give under the pressure of his, and was suddenly afraid. Now, there in the circle of his arms, he had something to lose. It made him weak and, therefore, vulnerable.

  Deac Smith cleared his throat. “Break it off, you two… There’s going to be one hellacious racket, and we need to be ready.”

  Manning kissed Sool on the forehead. “Take care of yourself, Doc, and keep your eyes peeled. If the prez green-lights some sort of raid, there will be a whole lot of confusion. Watch for me…’cause I’ll be there.”

  Sool smiled. Memories of fear, of gunfire, flickered through her mind. “Yes, I’m certain that you will. Please be careful.”

  Manning nodded, backed away, and was absorbed by the darkness. The rockets, firecrackers, and other displays went off three minutes later. At least six of the Kan bounced toward the source. No one was there.

  The blues cheered, whistled, and danced each other around. Sool watched with arms folded. Dixie seemed to materialize at her side. “Nice work, boss, you got it right this time.”

  “Thanks,” Sool replied. “Some things work better when you don’t have time to think about them.”

  “Amen to that,” the nurse said fervently.

  Then, as if to underline Dixie’s words, a rocket whistled high into the air, where it exploded and showered the slaves with light.

  ANACORTES, WASHINGTON

  The site for the facility had been chosen for purely pragmatic reasons. The factory would require fresh water and plenty of it. A sizable water main ran next to what had once been a rather pleasant park. By cutting the trees down, and leveling some small service buildings, the aliens freed sufficient ground for their purpose.

  The Sauron Book of Cycles didn’t include any strictures where the manufacture of birth catalyst was concerned, or that’s the way it seemed, as an engine revved, and a team of bright-eyed cokeheads used a crane to swing a pump from one side of the construction site to the other.

  Andromeda felt the pain before she heard the crack of the Fon’s harakna hide whip. The blow wasn’t much as such punishments went, only what the bugs referred to as a “starter,” but it would leave an angry weal nonetheless.

  Andromeda swore at herself for daydreaming, knew the lapse to be drug-related, and returned to work. She, along with three others, had been assigned to prepare valve assemblies for installation. The necessary parts had been laid out on a series of improvised worktables. Andromeda’s job was to snap an injector nozzle into the side of each fitting, grease the threads, and pass the assembly down the makeshift assembly line. Her peers worked in silence.