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What the fake Rock lacked in speed, he made up for in brute force. Mace’s head snapped back when he took a punch to the nose. Blood spurted. The damn thing was broken. Again. He wiped at the blood with the back of his hand.
With his ability to anticipate movement before it happened, he should have had the advantage, but it was lost in the narrow confines of the corridor. In a space this tight, strength beat speed hands down.
They have her. The bat’s voice in his head was distracting, and Mace took a step back to give him time to deal with it. That step took him closer to the end of the corridor. Closer to being hemmed in. His huge opponent grinned knowingly and advanced on him.
Is she hurt? He dodged the fist that came at him. Jabbing Rock over his kidneys. Once. Twice. It barely made an impact. The guy was one massive steroid-enhanced muscle.
Some. Don’t like these bad people.
A flurry of strikes in both directions left Mace breathless and spitting blood. Rock showed only irritation, and slow dread crept into Mace’s mind. Was this really going to be the fight he lost? The one where he let his team down? The fight that took him away from Keiko when he’d only just found her?
The bat sent him an image of her. Alone, small, and vulnerable, surrounded by people who were out for her blood. She didn’t stand a chance. And every minute he was away from her was a minute closer to her being sacrificed for Freedom’s cause.
Over his dead body.
Rock grabbed him, pulling him in tight, pummeling his stomach as he snarled in his ear, “Any last words, asshole?”
Vomit rose in his throat. “How about a Glasgow kiss?”
Rock’s head pulled back, confused and disgusted. Obviously he’d never heard of the move. Mace didn’t hesitate—he sent his head into his opponent’s face, using it as a battering ram to take out his nose and taking some satisfaction in the fact it was the giant’s turn to bleed.
Rock staggered back, giving Mace an opening, and he didn’t waste it. Using every bit of force that he could muster, he hit one of the only two vulnerable spots he could see on the guy—his throat.
He felt his punch hit true. For a second, a look of startled bemusement filled the giant’s face, and his hands flew to his throat. And then he crumpled. His windpipe crushed. His life over.
Mace didn’t take time to gloat. He stepped over the body and picked up his weapon just as another Freedom fighter appeared from the basement. Mace shot him in the head and didn’t bother hanging around to watch him fall. Instead, he ran for the elevator. His nose was broken, but the bleeding had stopped, and one of his eyes was swelling shut. He could ignore both complaints. His main worry was the pain in his chest every time he took a breath, indicating his ribs were cracked, maybe even broken. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was getting to Keiko. He wished he could use his bat to pass on a message to assure her he was coming. That he’d keep his word. That somehow, some way, he’d get her out of this alive.
If it was the last thing he did.
…
“This is an EMP band.”
The woman who’d introduced herself as Susan Neal and was obviously in charge held up the innocuous-looking piece of equipment for Keiko to see. Hard to believe that it could kill with just one flick of a switch.
The way it had killed Abigail.
She’d spotted her friend as soon as they’d made it to the edge of the stage. Abigail looked like a rag doll, tossed on the ground by a child throwing a tantrum. There was blood on her face, and her limbs lay at unnatural angles. For the first time in Keiko’s life, she understood what the word lifeless meant. It wasn’t death—it was the absence of life. Abigail was a shell. Everything that had made her her was gone—her joy, her shyness, her fierce loyalty. It had all fled, along with her spirit.
Her friend was gone.
It was like a knife to her gut. And having her lie there, discarded for all to see, made her death seem worse. No, not her death. Her murder. It ripped Keiko apart inside to see Abigail like that. But she wasn’t going to give her murderer the satisfaction of seeing her mourn. That would be saved for later, when Keiko could give her friend’s memory the respect it deserved.
“I’ll give you a choice,” Susan said, tearing Keiko’s attention from Abigail’s body. “You can wear the band and kneel on the stage beside the delightful Rueben. Or you can address the cameras with a statement I’ve prepared for you.”
Susan had chilling blue eyes that held only a hint of amusement and none of the disgust or despair Keiko would have e
xpected from a civilian who felt they had to execute people to further their cause. With her blond hair and her cold eyes, the terrorist was strangely familiar. It took a minute for Keiko to realize the woman reminded her of Miriam Shepherd. And for the first time in all her years of working closely with CommTECH’s CEO, Keiko wondered if Miriam would also find it easy to kill for her cause.
“I assume this statement you’d like read has me playing the part of a Freedom convert.”
It wasn’t a question. She knew public relations. She’d built her reputation on being the trustworthy voice of the ruling company. People believed what she said, and because of that, she tried to give them the truth and not misuse her power. She wasn’t a fool. There was a certain amount of manipulation in every marketing scenario, but Keiko had tried to use hers for good and not evil. Like a superhero.
Mace had been right. She was naive.
“I can’t do it.” She shook her head at the woman who’d murdered her friend.
“You mean you won’t do it.” Susan angled her head and considered Keiko. “Do you believe in the company that much? Enough to risk your life rather than your reputation?”
