were too wide.

He checked the street again. There was no one in sight. The noise coming from the plaza was loud; there was shouting in both English and Russian, as well as gunfire.

It was the gunfire that made him reckless. He spun around on his back and braced his hands against a support beam. Then he rammed the heels of his Converse into the wood directly next to the opening.

It took five good kicks before the wood splintered. Dal cleared away the debris with his foot. When he was finished, there was a jagged gash next to the grate opening.

It was now wide enough for him.

He flipped over and crawled out head-first. He crouched in the street, scanning the area as Lena wriggled out beside him. More gunfire ripped up from the plaza.

Blood beat in his temples. Worry made it hard to breathe. He couldn’t get Mr. Cecchino’s face out of his head.

Lena grabbed his hand. They crept to the far end of the alleyway and peered around the corner. They had a clear view of Rossi’s downtown plaza.

It was the size of a city block. In the center was a large fountain with benches interspersed around it. A series of sidewalks stretched out from the fountain like the arms of a star. Triangle wedges of grass filled the area between the walkways.

The plaza was used for many things. Fourth of July celebrations. Multicultural events, like Chinese New Year and Cinco de Mayo. Music festivals. Even anti-nuke rallies.

Today, it was surrounded by a solid wall of fatigues emblazoned with the red star, sickle, and hammer. The Russians hemmed in several hundred people.

Dal expected to see them firing their guns into the innocent crowd. He expected to see a slaughter house.

Instead, the Soviets discharged their weapons into the open air, laughing and shouting as they did so. It was hard to see past the thick ring of invaders, but Dal was tall enough to glimpse inside. He saw the bodies of Americans crushed together in fear. Mr. Cecchino was in there somewhere, but it was impossible to pick him out.

“They keep shouting death and mayhem,” Lena whispered. “Can you see what they’re doing?”

Dal shook his head, feeling helpless. He wanted to charge in there and find Mr. Cecchino, but that would only get him shot—either with a bullet, or a red dart.

“Let’s try and get a better look.” Lena jerked her thumb at the Cantina.

They backed away from the street corner. Like the news station, many of the windows had been shot out of the Mexican restaurant. A large window that led into the bar lay open to the street.

Lena was tall and lean. She slipped easily through the jagged opening. Dal sucked in his ribcage before following her. He knocked a few shards of glass free with his chest, but the sound was lost in the roar of the machine gun fire.

They crept through the bar, making their way to the east side of the restaurant for a better look into the plaza. Margarita glasses were smashed on the floor. Someone had dropped a burrito and stepped on it.

They paused at the host stand. Dal strained his ears.

“Do you hear that?” he asked in a soft voice.

Lena nodded. She heard it too: Russian voices, coming from somewhere above them.

“The owners live on top of the restaurant,” Lena said. “The Russians must have found a way up there.”

Dal’s first instinct was to get Lena the hell out of the Cantina. But they’d have no chance of finding Mr. Cecchino if they ran now.

He peeked around the corner into the main dining room, where there was a wall of solid glass that gave them a clear view of the plaza. Only two of the large windows had been shot out. The rest stood intact. An abandoned plate of enchiladas sat untouched on a table.

“Over there.” He pointed to the stage at the back of the room. Live bands performed there on the weekends. The stage was stacked with several large speakers, all of them big enough to hide behind.

Lena nodded. Crouching low, they scurried through the dining room, hopped onto the stage, and hid behind the speakers.

They now had a front row seat to everything happening in the plaza. The gunfire had died in the last thirty seconds. Frightened murmuring had fallen over the gathered prisoners.

Dal spotted dead bodies on the ground outside, along with a great deal of blood. The sight made his stomach clench. There were overturned tables from the anti-nuke rally and poster boards trampled underfoot. No doubt the Soviets had swept through here in the initial attack.

The fact that Lena had escaped seemed like a miracle. She could have easily been one of the dead out there. As the thought came to him, he realized he had his arm around her. He tightened his grip protectively, relieved when she didn’t pull away.

“American swine.” A thickly accented voice projected across the crowd. Someone spoke through a megaphone—possibly one of the megaphones that had been used in the anti-nuke rally. “This is now Russian soil. You are guests in a foreign nation. All guests must be inoculated.”

At the word inoculated, the Russian soldiers lifted their dart guns. The sight of red darts resting in large cartridges filled Dal with dread. They had to find out what the hell was in those things.

The people screamed as the Russians began firing darts into the mass. Lena’s hands latched around Dal’s upper arm, gripping him so fiercely he knew she’d leave bruises.

The shooting lasted for what seemed like hours. In truth, it was no more than five minutes.

“Return to your homes,” boomed the voice through the megaphone. “Tell your family and your neighbors that you all now reside on Russian soil. Spread the word, comrades.”

In a synchronized movement, the Soviets dispersed, breaking the solid wall they’d made with their bodies. They moved into the crowd, firing their darts as people fled.

“They’re letting them go?” A dent marred Lena’s brow. “That’s doesn’t make any

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