"WHO ARE YOU?" John demanded.

"I— I— I'm a journalist." Jen stumbled to get the words out.

"And I'm Gunga Din. Close the door, put your purse on the counter, keep your hands where I can see them and don't make any sudden moves."

The sandy-haired man before Jen was handsome in an intellectual way. Had he not been pointing a gun at her, Jen might have taken the time to note his blue-green eyes and gentle features. As it was, she saw a large gun with a man behind it—a man who seemed at the moment more intimidating than handsome. "Who are you?" she asked.

"I'll ask the questions. You'll answer them. Now close the door and put the purse on the counter."

Jen shoved the door closed and lobbed her purse across the distance between them. It landed on the floor at John's feet. He looked at her.

"I never was much good at taking orders," Jen offered.

John picked up the purse, eyes never leaving the stranger before him. "How are you at taking bullets?" he inquired.

"I don't know. I've never tried it."

"Stick around awhile and you might." He searched Jen's purse quickly. "No gun," he announced after a moment. "You don't have a clue, do you?"

Jen began to say something, then thought better of it and closed her mouth.

Finding the pepper spray, John removed it from the purse. "Pepper spray?" He half-laughed. "Give me a break... I have news for you, lady; defense sprays don't work. Adrenaline's an antidote, and anybody in attack mode is full of it."

Indeed, John had viewed the videotapes of the Modern Warrior Institute in New York, in which scores of test subjects had been handed rubber knives, sprayed in the face, and instructed to "attack" their fleeing, zigzagging opponent. No sprayed student had ever failed to "stab" the sprayer. Defense sprays were, for the most part, effective only when unexpected.

The same institute had sprayed unsuspecting, attack-trained police dogs in the face and watched them whimper with docility. But dogs given the attack command prior to being sprayed were not immediately affected and attacked viciously—because their blood surged with adrenaline, like the blood of the forewarned rubber-knife squad.

Likewise, John knew that the so-called "police effectiveness ratings" touted by the makers of such sprays were completely at odds with reality; those figures came largely from situations in which Cop A sprayed the suspect in the face while Cop B stood to one side, gun in hand, ready to shoot should the suspect fail to submit to arrest. Not surprisingly, even violent suspects OD'd on adrenaline chose to submit in order to avoid being shot—each time chalking up one more bullshit defense spray "effectiveness" stat to be foisted upon an unsuspecting public which didn't know any better. Paramedics knew better; for those few who displayed severe reactions to the sprays, they administered adrenaline—epinephrine—as an antidote.

Setting down the canister, John continued rooting through the purse as he spoke. "Frank Ward was a cop in Oregon—until he emptied a can of double-strength pepper spray in the face of an attacker. The guy then beat him to death with his own baton, took his gun and split. You know what the manufacturer said to the widow in court...?"

Jen shook her head.

John held up the canister. "He should have known better than to rely on this, to save his life. That was cop-strength spray; twice as strong as what you can buy. Do the world a favor and write about that." Dropping the can back in the purse, he came up with her ID. "Jennifer Rayne," he announced, sounding impressed. His eyes slid up to hers. "You won the Particle Prize for that series on quantum computing."

Jen's chin rose a bit in a subtle gesture of pride and vindication. "That's right."

"Nice articles," said John, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable.

"Thank you." She wondered if she could use his familiarity with her work as a lever to pry loose the information she needed.

Replacing the ID, John tossed the purse back at her. "Here's your purse. There's the door. Get lost."

Jen trapped the purse against her body. "Now wait a minute. I came here to get a story. Mitchell Swain—"

John shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"—was pouring billions of dollars into something you're in charge of, and I'm going to find out what it is."

"No you're not." John set the gun down and moved another box. Jen scanned the room for clues—eyes pausing on the black-and-white photo on the desktop. She continued scanning, brows furrowing at the words ASSEMBLER INFO scrawled on one of the boxes atop the cart. "Whatever you're doing, with that kind of funding it has to be important."

"Like you wouldn't believe," John replied, moving another box. He paused, puzzled. "How did you find me?" he asked.

"Tell me what you're working on."

"No deal." It didn't really matter; all links to his past would soon vanish from the planet, just as he himself would shortly disappear. When he reemerged, he would fear no man, no company, no government—if all went well.

"I know about your computer," said Jen.

John hesitated, surprised. "Good for you." He moved another box. "And you found me how...?" He couldn't help but ask again; it bothered him that—after all of his elaborate precautions—someone had, after all, been able to find him. And if one person had found him, others might as well.

"What's in it for me if I tell you?"

"My compliments."

Jen sighed; there was no reason not to tell him. "I liberated Swain's black funds records. A friend hacked the bank transactions. Then we found the computer. You called the computer from this building."

"Impressive. Where's your friend?"

Jen's gaze dropped to the floor. "Dead."

"Figures."

Jen looked up, angry and hurt. "You're an arrogant sonofabitch, you know that?"

"Yeah, I know that. But I'm still alive. Hang around me long enough and you won't be."

Despite the circumstances, the journalist in Jen came to the fore. "Why?" she asked. "What was Swain going to announce?"

"Give it up, lady," said John, moving another box onto the cart. "Go home."

"Tell me."

John looked at her in exasperation.

"Don't you want your work to be recognized?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Transferring the next-to-last box to the cart, John looked at her. "You don't want to know." Holding out his right hand, he pointed his index finger at the floor and used it to describe a half-circle in the air. "Just turn around—" He pointed at the door. "—walk out that door and get as far away from this as possible. This is a limited-time offer."

"Listen. I know there's an incredibly important story here, a friend of mine died pursuing it and I am not leaving until I find out why, dammit!" She paused for a moment, then spoke more calmly, her tone almost almost apologetic. "That's what I do."

"Yeah, well—you hit the jackpot this time, sweetheart."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean"— John stepped nearer—"that Mitchell Swain's death was not a random occurrence, odds are I'm next on the list—and if you're with me?" He stabbed a finger at her in the air. "It's gonna be two-for-one day. Get the picture?" Turning, he walked back to the counter, lifted the final box and dumped it onto the cart. "So if you don't want to wind up like Mitchell and your dead friend," he continued, "I suggest you get the hell out of here."

Jen remained in place, obviously frightened but too determined—or obstinate—to abandon it. "I'll make you a deal: Tell me what I want to know and I'm out of your life."

"You have no idea how tempting that is." Frowning, John scooped up the gun and pointed it at her. "There's no Pulitzer Prize here, lady. I'm adding fifty years to your life. Now get out."

"Remember when I said you were arrogant?"

John's head cocked to one side, as if straining to hear.

"I was being kind."

"Shut up a minute would you?"

Don't tell me to shut up, you condescending—"

John leapt forward suddenly, pinning Jen against the wall with one hand pressed tight over her mouth.

"Mm-mmpff-m."

"Shut...up," John repeated, his voice now an urgent whisper. "And don't move." His eyes slid toward the nearest window. Jen's followed at the sound of tires on rain-slicked asphalt.

John harbored no doubt as to who was outside. How they'd found him was another matter. There were three possibilities: They'd found him independently of the woman before him, they'd found him with the willing help of the woman before him—or... He looked into her eyes, appraising what he saw there. "You come right here from your dead friend's?" he asked.

Jen's "Oh, shit," expression said it all. She nodded.

"They tracked your car." Releasing her, John latched the briefcase and strapped the pack around his waist. "Thanks." He moved toward the bathroom, gun in hand.

Swain's killers, or someone working for them, were using her to find what they alone could not—this man before her. It didn't make her sorry she'd come, not for a moment, but it did enable her to view John a bit—a small bit—more sympathetically. "Who are they?" she asked.

"You're the journalist. You figure it out." John stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

Jen's small bit of sympathy became smaller.

Once inside the darkened bathroom, John cracked open the frosted window and peered outside. The street below appeared deserted. Which, he realized grimly, did not mean it was—but his options were swiftly narrowing.

Jen stood beside the window on the big room's opposite side, peering cautiously downward from beside the drape. The rain outside had stopped. Sleek black cars with open doors stood on the street below. Eleven men clad in black body armor and carrying submachine guns moved to cover the building's rear exits and the alley to either side.

John emerged from the bathroom. "It appears there's no one out front," he announced. Jen moved from the window. "Cautious statement," she noted.

"If you knew what I knew, you'd be cautious... And armed." Removing the magazine from the Colt, he placed it inside the waistpack, withdrawing a second clip which he slid very carefully into the beveled mag well until it locked into place.

"What do we do now?"

"Sorry, sweetheart; there's no we in my world." He picked up the closed briefcase. "You got yourself into this. Now get yourself out." Moving to the door, he set a wall-mounted timer to thirty seconds.

"You need me."

John opened the door, then glanced back in annoyance at the picture on the desk. "I don't need anyone," he said, and left. Jen looked around quickly, gaze settling on the ticking timer, then followed.

"Where are we going?"

"Are you still here?"

Jen frowned as they hurried down the hall.

"Look, lady—you don't want to be with me."

"You know what's going on; I don't. I— I'm afraid to be without you, okay?"

"You, afraid? Nice try."

"It's a new experience for me."

"Yeah, well—you ain't seen nothin' yet..." John paused as they reached the fire stairs. "Tell you what," he said. Pointing the muzzle at the floor, he flicked off the safety and jerked back the slide, ejecting a live 230-grain Hydra-Shok round onto the floor. "We survive the next ten minutes—" he released the slide, chambering the top round from the new clip "—and I'll consider telling you what's going on. Assuming you still want to hang around."

"Deal."

They started down the stairs.

"Where are we going?" Jen repeated.

"Anywhere but here." Something in the way John said those words sent a chill down Jen's spine.

Outside, behind the building, the operation's tactical commander stood behind the lead car, scanning the structure's windows through binoculars. "This is Tac One," he said into the throat-mounted microphone he wore inside his armored collar, "in position. Tac Two, where are you?"

On the far side of the building, another three cars screeched to a stop in the street, forming a wedge just left of the warehouse's front entrance. "Arriving now," responded the leader of the second team from the passenger seat of the lead car. "Full deployment, thirty seconds." Car doors flew open as the vehicles halted, disgorging another dozen armed men in tac gear.

The fire door on the far side of the main entrance sprang open. The men emerging from the cars stopped and took cover behind them, opening fire with MP7SD3s. The sound of the bolts snakking into place after each round was louder than the sound of the rounds fired by the integrally-suppressed submachine guns themselves.

John jumped back from the doorway as nine-millimeter bullets hammered into the door beside him and the wall across the hall. Jen was right behind him.

"Jeezus what the hell is this?" she demanded.

"You wanted a story, lady," John replied, hugging the concrete wall for protection. "This is just the warm-up..."

She stared at him. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Five years in the lab had been an escape from a world he found both lacking and vicious while he labored to create what would in the long run be a new and better world into which he had planned to emerge. But the old world, it seemed, would not go gently into that good night.

So be it, he thought grimly. You want trouble? You came to The Man.

The bullets stopped for a moment as the men outside ran dry and changed magazines. Sliding down the wall, John swung low around the doorframe, extending the pistol out before him.

The attackers moved for cover.

Presenting only right eye and chin as targets, he centered the closest man in the Colt's three green-glowing tritium dot-sights—and hesitated. The gun began to tremble in his hands.

A thousand images raced through his mind in an instant: Shaking hands with Mitchell for the first time; his mother's death from cancer; the instant of Breakthrough, at once glorious and terrifying; Mitchell's assassination, which had radically altered the course of history, though no one but he was yet aware of this; the wife he'd never met; his mother's blood cells frozen in liquid nitrogen that he might one day use them to clone and raise her as his daughter—the only way left to return the years of love and sacrifice she'd given to him after the death of his father. This time, there would be no cancer...

Above all of this, John Marrek saw the world as it was, and as it might be. The old world which must pass away to give life to the world which was to come.

His world. The two could not coexist. This would be the shot heard round the world—fired in the old, reverberating into the new.

If there was a world left to hear it.

"What are you waiting for?" Jen demanded.

The men outside brought their weapons back up, and John ducked back into the hall as a second fusillade erupted.

"Give me the gun; I'll do it."

He looked at her, voice oddly calm. "You don't understand," he said. Doing the research and planning an orderly implementation to be carried out by others was one thing, but this—unleashing the revolution upon the world first as a weapon—bordered on madness. And there would be no turning back. Ever. Already the course of events was being determined by the actions of others. That must stop; he must regain control.

An explosion sounded from the far side of the building. An entry team, he realized.

"I understand the guys out back are inside the building," said Jen.

Frowning, John waited—thankful he'd spent time at a firing range, unsure whether the techniques learned there would hold up under pressure. At the next lull in the firing, he leaned around the doorway, clamped down hard on the gun—which suddenly steadied in his grip—and pulled the trigger. The gun pushed back on his arm, its mercury-and-steel-ball-bearing recoil reducer cushioning the big gun's kick. After the subdued pfft-pfft-pffts of the suppressed MP7s, the Colt sounded like a cannon.

The bullet struck the team leader squarely in the chest and was stopped by his thick level IIIA armor. His companions returned fire immediately as John ducked from sight, bullets chewing up the corner beside him, and the wall across from him and Jen.

Looking down, the team leader brushed a hand over the strike area. Tiny shards of what looked like clear glass fell to the street beside a mushroomed, hot lead slug with the pattern of the Second Chance vest's woven kevlar fibers pressed into the soft, deformed metal.

The team leader stared in puzzlement at the street, which began to crawl around the slug, as if covered with a mass of insects too small to be perceived individually. He looked at his vest—which also began to crawl, directly over the strike area. He brushed at it again with his hand.

Just inside the door, Jen looked to John, who stood and leaned back against the wall. Eyes closed, he began counting under his breath. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Waiting."

"For what?"

Beside the car, the team leader jerked his hand away from the vest and held it before him. It, too, began to crawl—and then, like his vest and the street at his feet—to disappear.

Eyes wide with terror, he opened his mouth and screamed.

John's eyes snapped open as he nodded to himself. Holstering the Colt inside the waistpack—which was actually a concealed holster with internal and external pockets—he turned to Jen. "Take my hand," he said. She hesitated, and he took hers instead.

"Run as fast as you can and don't look back. Ready?"

"What about them?"

"They have bigger problems."

Frightened and confused, Jen nodded—and the two of them bolted through the doorway and angled off to the right. The tactical team never looked at them. Instead, they flailed frantically at their own bodies. Jen slowed as she ran—releasing John's hand—riveted by the scene before her.

What she saw was beyond the experience of any living being. Twenty yards distant, men, guns, and vehicles crawled as though covered with some unseen, colorless substance. Something which seemed to move, yet to remain still at once.

As she watched, all of these things, including the men—disappeared from the outside in. The men screamed horribly, dissolving into nothingness before her eyes—first skin, then muscle and organs, followed by bone. The cars, too, disintegrated before her eyes. So horrified and enthralled was she by the sight of it that she almost failed to notice that the crawling surface covered the street as well—and was spreading rapidly outward in all directions, including hers.

Still she watched as the crawling surface encountered the face of the warehouse and spread upward without pause, seeming to defy gravity. All the while a low sound grew swiftly louder in her ears—a rising, blood-chilling chitter like the sound of a trillion unseen, voracious insects.

Transfixed, Jen watched with a paralyzing horror so deep it transcended all rational thought. Appearing beside her, John seized her firmly by the arm and jerked her around the corner onto the next street.

After they had gone, the awful chitter grew louder still, and the spreading, crawling wave moved nearer—disintegrating street, walls, Jen's Navigator and the corner where she had stood mere seconds before. The warehouse across the street began to disappear at a rapidly accelerating pace as the crawling, chittering wave of destruction ascended the posts of streetlamps and dissolved them, plunging the street into darkness.

On the dirt which had been a paved street but a moment before, no thing remained; not ash, not cinder, no pool of liquid or pile of debris—nothing whatsoever to indicate that man, or car, or gun or street had ever existed.

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