"Never imagined they could move like that," Balkan exclaimed, clapping his hands. "Better than any ringside by far."

"You lost your backup in the process," John said, turning the gas switch to the 'off' position.

"Inconsequential. Milo Lockheart's alive. Good job. You've earned your pay this week, mister. Call the rest of the guards. Have him cleaned up and moved elsewhere. This place needs hosing down -- it's a slaughterhouse in there."

John nodded. "I need to vent the room before anyone walks in."

He clicked on emergency ventilation and heard the fans spun up, sucking out the chloro-remifentanil aerosol. As he deactivated the locking system, the rods pulled back from the door frame, resounding in soft thuds.

Once the air cleared, Balkan and his interrogator made their way outside where prison guards waited to enter the tiled room.

John turned the knob, took a tentative step past the threshold. He remained standing. The odorless knockout agent was gone. Balkan went in after to survey the bloodbath. There were seven bodies in the room; only one was unscathed, though the Sandman looked to be a corpse himself, drenched in crimson.

John dragged Alex away by her arm, knew where to deactivate the claws, Balkan observed. Something's not right, Balkan thought.

"You know where the off switch is," the Secretary said.

"Your rat Warchild told me."

"Then why didn't you drain Marlboro of her claws?"

"Because what fun would that be?" It wasn't John who answered but the man getting up from the floor, untied by the Inquisitor. "Thank you, Johann." Lockheart staggered, held up by his false tormentor.

Backing toward the door, Balkan hadn't grasped the full picture, his mouth hung open stupidly. "How? The gas?"

"Oh, I had a lung filter implanted just for these gaseous occasions, complements of the Agency, of course."

In a fit of panic, the Secretary ordered the Praetorians, "Shoot them." But no one raised his weapon. The grins on their faces revealed everything. With hubris came nemesis. Balkan had been hoodwinked, been made a fool, and was now at the mercy of the Sandman, a terrifying prospect. For the first time in his life, Balkan felt true fear that buckled his knees.

Able to stand by himself, Lockheart picked up a clean towel and wiped his face.

"What -- what are you going to do?" Balkan stuttered.

"The game continues."

"TexPax will hunt you down -- "

"I imagine they will have bigger problems to worry about. Conclave for one. And you are expendable, Mr. Secretary. I never go back on a deal I made."

"You can't kill me." Balkan took a step back. "I'm the TexPax nominee for the next POTUS."

"Oh, I won't kill you."

Balkan breathed relief.

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"He will."

In a blur of motion, John had released the .45 automatic from his shoulder holster, the weapon already chambered and safetied off. He fired three shots at the Secretary at point-blank range. The first slug staggered Balkan, the second flung him back, the third put him out. Balkan's body flew out into the hallway, twisted in a heap.

"Good night, sleep tight."

* * *

After an hour, her legs began to go numb.

Porsche stayed where she was even after the door hissed shut. Through the speakers, she'd listened as they discussed what to do with the amazonian.

"Leave her. Makes for a compelling case of revenge killing. Just look at all this mess," Lockheart had told his lieutenant Johann Casper.

Satisfied there were no other sounds but machinery whines and hisses, she squeezed through the crawl space that encased the pipes and wormed her way over the hole. Carefully lifting the gypsum board out of its frame, she swung her legs through the false ceiling and dropped one foot at a time onto sturdy boxes.

The guard who'd brought her here was long gone, she suspected, probably skipped town as soon as he heard what happened. That would be smart. The proverbial hell was not only loose, it will be on a rampage soon.

She hadn't expected to be here this long.

The detention center went into meltdown shortly thereafter. She could hear loud voices and stomping boots coming down the hallway just beyond. Quickly, she replaced the gypsum board and climbed down.

The door flew open and guards in riot gear came in to check the control room and found an infirmary nurse.

She feigned ignorance, raising her hands. "Don't shoot!"

"Who are you, what are you doing here?"

"I just walked in, trying to make sense of all this. It's a massacre." She switched on rehearsed hysterics.

"Help her out of here," the riot guard leader ordered one of his men.

"I'm alright," Porsche said wiping her tears. "I can help."

One of the guards checked the video banks. "It's been erased."

"Did you see anyone leave?"

"Place was empty -- except -- " She shook her head convincingly while holding a hand to her mouth. A body had been dragged from the hallway, evidenced by blood trails and left sitting against the wall.

"Holy shit -- is that? That's Secretary Balkan. Jesus, go get the warden. Move it!"

"Let me check on the others," Porsche said. "There might be survivors."

When the door to the wet room opened, the men staggered and reeled.

"Oh my --"

One of the guards gagged and ran off. Several men in riot armor turned green and threw up in their visored helmets. They backed away from the carnage.

She made her way past them. They didn't try to stop her.

Porsche went straight to Alex Marlboro. She'd lost a lot of blood, her pulse weak. Bleeding stopped.

"This one's still alive," Porsche told the remaining guards. "One of you help me take her to the infirmary. Hurry!"

Two men snapped to, stepping into the hellish room. They lifted the big woman under the arms just as the first robotic gurney arrived; they hefted the dead weight on it.

"I got it from here," Porsche ordered with authority, pushing the men away from the gurney. "Go back and check on the others. Go."

She directed the electro-gurney down the hallway as fast as she could run, remembering what Myers said about the exit -- it's on B Level.

The elevator ran past the infirmary. On the third level, Porsche heaved the gurney, stumbling into the kitchen crew who were coming in to prepare breakfast. The prisoners gave her a curious look but stepped aside when they saw the blood. No one wanted trouble while the alarms were blaring and guards were running everywhere with riot gears.

The delivery entrance was a few feet in the back of the kitchen. She rolled the gurney out into the breaking dawn.

The sky outside was turning purple. She had made it out in time.

Not far was the VTOL lot where PAVs were parked, where Papa in a guard uniform waited nearby. He heaved Alex off the gurney as Rotter came out of the vehicle to help.

"She's alive," Porsche said. "Tough bitch."

"We keep on ticking," Rotter said, while Papa stuffed Marlboro in the back.

Porsche slipped into the backseat of the craft, spent physically and mentally. She and Rotter looked at each other.

Rotter managed a stupid line. "What's with the hubbub? The place is going into shut down."

"We better leave," Papa urged, jumping in, wiping the blood from his hands.

"What did happen in there?" Rotter insisted.

"Hell happened. Victor Balkan is dead."

"Holy --" Papa gasped and covered his mouth.

"Good riddance, he got what's coming," Rotter said, offering a sympathetic smile to a worn-out Latina that was once Porsche.

"If you're wondering -- it wasn't me," Porsche said and closed her eyes. She was fast asleep in the next second.