Conspircaies

But he's utterly helpless, a test animal in a vivisection clinic. He can't even turn his head. All he can do is watch in crosseyed horror as the probe enters his left nostril. But instead of a stab of pain in his nose, Jim feels a sharp blow to the side of his head—

'What the fuck?'

He was on the floor of his hotel room, mummied in his sheets, his left temple throbbing with pain.

Damn, that hurts.

He wriggled an arm free and rubbed the spot, then reached out and felt the corner of the night table, inches away.

Must have fallen out of bed.

He unwound himself from the sheets and crawled back up on the mattress.

Kee-rist, another wild-ass dream.

He glanced at the clock: 4:32. Same time as last night. What was going on here?

He lay back, sweaty and trembling. Awfully fucking real, that dream. How could he be sure it was a dream? He felt his nose—no tenderness there.

And yet…

James Zaleski lay in the dark, trembling, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, afraid to go back to sleep.

Miles…

…awakens with a start to the sound of gunfire.

A dream, or real? And where did it come from?

Another burst of automatic fire—from the hall.

Miles leaps out of bed, pulls open the night table drawer, and reaches inside for his .45.

Gone! Panic nibbles at his entrails as he runs frantic fingers over the entire interior of the drawer—except for the Gideon Bible, it's empty.

Leaving the lights off he feels his way to his suitcase where he always carries a spare. But that's gone too. Miles jumps at the sound of an accented voice behind him.

'Don't waste your time, Kenway.'

The lights go on and he sees a man in full military battle gear, all in black except for his pale blue helmet. He looks Japanese or Chinese, or maybe even Vietnamese.

'Who the hell are you?'

Miles knows full well who he is—not his name, but who sent him. He recognizes the uniform, and cold dread seeps through his soul. It's finally happened—the New World Order has begun its takeover.

'Your new master,' the trooper says. He's pointing an AK-47 at Miles's gut. 'Out into the hall.'

Miles looks down at his undershirt and boxer shorts. 'At least let me get—'

Without warning, the automatic rifle bursts to life. Miles cringes as it stitches a row of holes across the wall of the room.

'Move!'

Miles moves. Barefooted, he raises his hands above his head and pads toward the door. His heart thuds against his chest wall like a mailed fist. Where are they taking him? To a mass execution area? Or to a detention camp? Better a quick death here than a slow death in a camp.

With that thought powering him, he lowers his hands and grabs the doorknob. He pretends it won't turn.

'Something's wrong,' he says. 'It's locked.'

The NWO trooper shoves the stock of his rife against Miles's back and barks: 'Open it!'

'It won't turn, I tell you.'

The trooper shoves him again and reaches past him…and that leaves only one hand on the rifle.

Do I have the guts to do this? Miles wonders. His bladder feels ready to explode and he's got so much adrenaline flowing through him now he feels like he's floating. Do I?

Guts or not, this may be his only chance, so that leaves him no choice.

Miles twists and drives his right elbow into the trooper's throat as he grabs the AK-47. The trooper lets out a strangled cough and staggers back, clutching at his throat. Miles knees him in the balls as he gets a two-handed grip on the rifle and rips it free. Without hesitation he aims and fires a short burst. The rifle kicks and bucks and blows the bastard through the window onto the street below.

Miles stares at the ragged hole in the glass. Jesus, he did it! All that training paid off! He blew the son of a bitch away!

Suddenly the remaining glass is shattered by a barrage from below. Miles turns, ducks, and dives for the door. They'll be after him now. No time to get dressed. He runs out into the hall and automatically turns toward the elevators. He stops. No. Too easy to trap him there. He whirls and runs for the stairs.

As he reaches the door he hears a commotion behind him. He looks back and sees a squad of NWO troopers rush out of the elevator foyer.

'Damn!' he whispers and pushes through into the stairwell.

He starts down but hears the sound of running feet echoing from below. He's got only one option now, and since there's only one floor above him, that doesn't leave him far to go.

He bounds up four flights to a red door. The sign says:

FOR EMERGENCY ONLY ALARM WILL SOUND

He pushes through and, just as promised, the alarm starts ringing. And now he's on the roof and he knows it's Alamo time. He won't get out of this alive, but he'll take as many of the bastards as he can with him before he dies.

The oblivious city is lit up around him. In how many other buildings is this same scene being played out?

He finds an air conditioning vent and crouches behind it, points the AK-47 at the door, and waits.

Suddenly a nylon rope whips around his upper body and tightens like a noose, pinning his arms at his sides. He drops the rifle as he is yanked off his feet and into the air.

He looks above and sees a giant black helicopter reeling him in like a cheap toy in an arcade game. Why can't he hear it? Why doesn't he feel the wash from its rotating blades?

Rough hands haul him into the black maw in the side of the craft. As the rope is loosened and pulled over his head, an accented voice, much like that of the trooper he killed, whispers in his ear.

'We've been looking for you. You're too valuable to kill, so we've got a special spot reserved in one of the re- education camps. You'll make a fine addition to one of our units.'

No! He won't be brainwashed!

Miles kicks out and leaps from the helicopter. Death first!

But a hand grabs the back of his shirt, and a different voice, a very American voice, starts shouting…

'Easy, now. Easy. You don't want to hurt yourself.' Miles looked down and saw the street eight stories below. With a cry of alarm, he turned and lurched away——into the arms of a large black man in some sort of uniform.

'Hey, now, that's better!'

It took Miles a second to recognize him as a hotel security guard.

'Where am I? He said, shakily pulling free of the guard's grasp.

'Up on the roof.'

'How—how'd I get here?'

'Sleepwalking, I think. You sure didn't look completely awake when you passed me in the hall a few minutes ago. And since it's my job to be on the lookout for things like people wandering around dressed in their skivvies at four-thirty in the morning, I decided to follow you. Good thing I did or you'd be splattered on the sidewalk by now.'

Miles shuddered. 'But I never sleepwalk.'

'Well, you did tonight. Come on,' he said, gesturing toward the door to the stairs. 'Let's get you back to your room.'

Shakily, Miles led the way.