In the hallway outside the Oval Office, four security agents surrounded Resnick. Martin kept pace with help from another agent while Alex and Webb followed just behind. The corridors were empty. The men and women busy at work minutes earlier were now gone. At every turn, the agent leading the formation spoke into a microphone on his wrist to relay Resnick’s location.

They departed the West Wing through an open-columned walkway leading toward the Executive Residence. A smoky odor permeated the atmosphere. Every few seconds, another explosion sounded in the distance. She moved toward the edge of the pathway to look into the sky but Webb blocked her and forced her back.

Two agents waited at the end of the walkway. The men opened the doors into the Executive Residence and then followed once everyone was inside. They arrived at a central hallway lit by chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Red carpets with golden details covered the floor, and white marble busts on round pedestals stood along the wall.

“In Center Hall now,” the lead agent reported. “ETA is one minute.”

“I want to know what’s going on as soon as we get down there,” Resnick said to Martin. “How did the Directorate manage—”

For Alex, the events happened in slow motion. The lead agent put his hand to his ear and then spun and shouted, “DOWN!” The other agents were already reacting. One pushed Resnick to the floor while the others piled on top of him. The agent beside Martin shoved him to the wall and shielded him. Then flames and smoke engulfed the far end of the corridor.

The doors to the East Wing blew out of their frames and hurtled down the hall. The chandeliers shattered and went dark. Glass rained down on the men protecting Resnick. The hallway shook. Dust and stone debris fell as the ceiling cracked. A wave of fiery reds, oranges, and yellows blasted through the destroyed entranceway. Alex ran toward a flight of stairs but then something slammed into her and drove her down against the carpet. A heavy mass fell over her face and obscured her vision. A white-hot sword tore into her leg. Heat surged through the hallway as a rush of wind blew burning fragments and embers into her sides. The building trembled with a metallic groan, and a deep whooshing sound passed overhead, preceding a cacophony of stone tumbling and shattering. Then everything went quiet.

Alex lay still on her back. Despite the suffocating weight against her face and the pain in her leg, she could not move or even cry for help. Nearby, a fire crackled and snapped.

The object on top of her rolled off. The world was blurry. Smoke hung in the air. The once bright red carpets were now smoldering black and brown. Beside her, Webb groaned and pushed himself up on his hands and knees. The fire had singed his uniform, and there were burn marks on his neck. The black membrane covering his skull and eyes remained intact.

Webb looked at her with a hint of disappointment. “Still alive?”

Can’t please everyone. But why did he save me? Again.

Webb stood and moved across the hall. Martin was against the wall and partially covered by an agent’s corpse. Webb pushed the body aside. A shard of metal protruded from the agent’s back while the side of his skull was a wreck of blood and brain tissue.

Martin coughed as Webb tried to help him to his feet. “No! Alexandra! Where is she?” He coughed again and tried to push Webb away as he struggled to look around the destroyed corridor.

“She’s fine,” Webb said. “Are you hurt?”

“Check the president,” Martin said.

Webb continued to examine Martin before approaching the pile of men in the middle of the corridor. Alex knew that at least three of the men were dead. The lead agent had taken the brunt of the explosion. He lay charred by the flames. The fire and debris had burnt and broken two others on the main detail. Slowly, the remaining agents began to pick themselves off Resnick, who got shakily to his feet.

Resnick appeared disoriented as he stood. Blood seeped from a cut on his forehead. He took a wobbly step and almost tripped on the corpse of one of the guards. He froze and stared at the body.

Alex became aware of the pain in her right leg as she tried to move. A fragment of wood the size of a kitchen knife stuck out four inches below her knee. Instead of blood, the strange black liquid seeped from the wound. She began to call out for help but then felt the urge to throw up. She leaned her head back and looked at the smoke-clouded ceiling.

Webb appeared above her holding a knife. She half expected him to plunge the blade into her neck. Instead, he cut his jacket and tore away a strip of fabric. Before she could react, he knelt and ripped out the fragment of wood. Her vision darkened with pain. She screamed and tried to sit to strike Webb but he grabbed her wrist and shoved her back to the ground. He went to work wrapping the strip of fabric around her leg and then tightened it hard over the wound.

“Just like old times,” Webb said.

One of the surviving agents tried to lead Resnick back toward a wide staircase. “We need to go.”

Resnick stared at the bodies. “What the hell happened? What about our defenses?”

“We lost contact with the roof.” The agent gestured toward the stairway and urged, “Mr. President, please.”

“Can we still reach the shelter?” Martin said.

“Yes, but we need to go. Now.”

“I’ll go to the roof,” Webb said to Martin. “I can get up there and make sure we don’t take another hit.”

Resnick looked at Alex. Her eyes watered from the smoke and the pain of Webb’s hasty first aid. Webb followed Resnick’s gaze. “I’ll take care of it.”

Alex tried to dodge as Webb reached for her forehead, but he was too quick. He pressed his palm between her eyes. This time, she concentrated and stared at the darkness covering Webb’s eyes. She remembered her father. She remembered the pursuit through the corridors of Cheyenne Mountain. She remembered the pain of the bullet passing into her chest and the horrible realization she was choking to death on her own blood. She closed her eyes. The pain came like a blow to the forehead but she refused to let go.

Hit him, girl. The voice sounded more like Nicole’s than her own.

For an instant, the membrane over Webb’s face disappeared. She saw everything: the worm-like stalks and the tiny points of light were staring at her, concentrated into two yellow auras. She pictured herself jamming a knife into one of the sockets and twisting.

Webb cried out and fell backward. He clutched at his face over his right eye.

Alex broke her concentration. The blazing white light in her vision faded. A mild headache remained along with a feeling of satisfaction dampened by the pain in her leg.

Webb removed Alex’s handgun from his holster. There appeared to be no permanent damage to his eye. He took hold of the handgun by the slide and again moved toward her but then hesitated when Martin shouted, “Aaron!”

Webb glanced at Martin. “I’m not going to shoot her. Just—”

“No.” Martin limped from the wall and came over to Alex and Webb. He stood above them and supported himself against one of the fractured stone pedestals. “Alexandra, are you all right?”

She looked at her wounded leg. “No, not really.”

“Colonel, what’s going on?” Resnick said.

Another explosion. The building shook. The remaining agents were growing more and more anxious. What’s going on? Are we really attacking Washington? Is it like New York again? Do they know I’m in the city? Are they trying to make a distraction?

“I can’t knock her out,” Webb said. “At least not without a lot more trouble.”

“It isn’t necessary.” Martin looked at Alex. “Can you stand?”

Alex sat and tried to stand but then an invisible knife cut through her leg. She shook her head and leaned back against the scorched wall.

“I need to get to the roof,” Webb said.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Resnick said. “If you can neutralize her abilities, I need you here.”

A third explosion caused a chunk of concrete to fall from the ceiling and crash near the door at the west end of the hallway. The smoke thickened. The agents again urged Resnick toward the stairway. Webb stood and grabbed Alex beneath the armpits. She was too surprised to struggle. A moment later, she was in the air and then over Webb’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry. She beat at his side with her free hand but then Webb started toward the stairs and she found herself holding on to avoid tumbling to the ground.

“Get to the shelter!” Webb yelled.

Alex heard Martin begin to protest but they were already halfway up the stairs. She was surprised at how quickly Webb could move. During her training with the team, some of the men had carried her while she acted as a simulated casualty. Only Sergeant Murray had been able to move as fast and that had been on flat terrain.

They reached the top of the first flight of stairs. Webb paused to take a breath before setting off again at a sprint. By the time they reached the top floor, Alex’s chest was on fire; Webb’s shoulder felt like a rough piece of concrete grinding into her. The pressure and residual smoke in her lungs made it hard to breathe.

“Put me… down!” she tried to shout but her voice was barely louder than Webb’s heavy panting.

Webb ignored her as they left the stairwell. They moved through a central hall and then out into a sunroom. Broken glass lay on the floor beside the empty windows. Webb stepped through one of the shattered frames and out onto an open promenade running the length of the roof’s perimeter. A six-foot-high balustrade surrounded the promenade. Through the gaps in the individual balusters, Alex spotted the marble obelisk of the Washington Monument piercing the horizon a half-mile away. Across the Potomac, clouds of soot and ash rose into the sky where flocks of black triangular shapes weaved in and out of formation as they rained missiles down on the city.

The drones. The Committee’s UCAVs.

Webb set Alex down with her back against the balustrade. Sweat soaked his uniform and made it appear as if he had jumped into a river.

A concussive blast came from higher on the roof. Then a trail of exhaust raced out toward the Washington Monument. The exhaust stream followed a jet of fire erupting from the engine of an anti-aircraft missile. Several hundred meters out, the missile diverted upward and homed in on one of the drones. A split second before impact, the drone corkscrewed straight down toward the earth. The missile attempted to arc toward its target but then the warhead detonated uselessly into white and yellow flames.

“Reload!”

A pair of soldiers stood on the roof just beyond the sunroom. One man held a surface-to-air launcher while the other knelt and removed a missile from a crate. Two more soldiers ran toward her and Webb.

Plumes of flame erupted from the museums and galleries along the Capitol Mall. Missiles slammed into the buildings and sent showers of glass and debris down into the streets. Gaping holes pouring columns of smoke scarred the walls and roofs of the elaborate granite and marble structures. The drones tore through the city block-by-block, obliterating buildings with a systematic and frightening precision.

But why are they attacking Washington? Why aren’t these things at Colorado waiting for the NEA?

“Sir!” one of the soldiers running toward Webb shouted.

Another exhaust stream streaked from the roof toward the drones. Again, the UCAV veered away at the last second and avoided the missile.

The two soldiers stopped. “Watch her,” Webb said. “Shoot her if she tries to go anywhere.”

“Sir?” Alex read the nametape of the man’s uniform. He was a sergeant named Heine. The other man, younger and a specialist, was named Fleming.

Webb ignored Heine, climbed the two tiers at the base for the balustrade, and then placed his hands on the parapet. To the south, three drones maneuvered close to the ground between the Washington Monument and the White House on a course toward the Capitol Building. Webb tracked their movement but then jerked back. He grabbed at his forehead and staggered, seeming on the verge of losing his balance. Blood leaked from his nose. Heine rushed forward but Webb waved him off. “I’m fine,” he said and then gestured at Alex. “Watch her.”

The drones altered course and sped toward the Executive Residence. Webb turned to the soldier holding the surface-to-air launcher. “Fire it!”

The soldier put his eye to the weapon’s optic and pulled the trigger. The missile launched from the tube. Webb spun to follow the missile’s trajectory and reached out as if trying to grab the projectile from the sky. The drone dodged but then Webb twisted his wrist and clenched his hand into a fist. The missile lurched sideways and slammed into the drone. The explosion tore the UCAV apart. Burning debris arced from the fireball and plummeted to the earth.

The two remaining drones wavered in flight but the confusion was short-lived. A missile dropped from the weapons bay of one of the drones and hurtled toward the Executive Residence. Alex tensed to leap behind cover but Webb again raised his hand. The missile swerved up at the last moment and exploded above the White House. The roof shuddered with the force of an earthquake. The few remaining shards of glass in the broken windows blew out of their frames into the building’s interior. Alex felt as if an invisible fist had struck her face and chest and then reached down her airway and into her lungs to steal her breath.

Both drones broke formation and passed over the East and West Wing. They ascended and then swept back toward each other. A missile dropped from the underbelly of each aircraft. The membrane atop Webb’s head had begun to swell. As the missiles approached, Webb held steady, seeming to focus all of his concentration against the two projectiles. Both missiles slowed. The drones caught up and sped past. A moment later, the missiles again sailed forward. The drones veered straight up and back in an attempt to evade but both warheads exploded on top of them. The first drone disintegrated from the force of the blast while the other’s left wing tore away, causing the UCAV to spin out of control. The soldiers beside Alex dove for cover as the drone spun overhead and then slammed into the South Lawn. Flames blossomed and then darkened into a black mushroom-shaped cloud rising from the center of the field. Webb knelt and took in deep gasps of air while perspiration trickled from his brow. Then Alex looked toward the Washington Monument and saw fire speeding straight at the White House.

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“Sir!” Heine yelled at Webb.

Webb looked up but it was too late. As Alex turned to shield herself, she glimpsed the surface-to-air launcher team dropping their equipment to flee.

The blast threw her into the air and flung her hard against the sunroom. Her shoulders hit first followed by her lower back and legs. She tried to breathe but smoke choked her lungs.

She crawled forward on her knees and elbows. Pain radiated from her shoulders and her wounded leg with each movement. The smoke dissipated, and suddenly, she was face-to-face with the dead eyes of the young specialist. She tried to remember his name. Fleming. His name was Fleming. Blood flowed from his ears and mouth. His dilated pupils stared at her. For an instant, she saw Specialist Park’s face instead. A piece of metal spattered with red gore protruded from his chest like a butcher’s knife. She looked around for Heine but all she found was a severed and burnt arm a few feet away. Then she saw Webb.

He stood covered in dust amidst the rubble. Blood and sweat stained his uniform. He knelt beside Fleming and pressed two fingers to the man’s neck. After a moment, he closed Fleming’s eyes and moved to Alex.

“Get up.”

“I can’t.” The strange black liquid – blood or something else, she wasn’t sure – seeped down her leg from the makeshift bandage.

Webb grabbed Alex and pulled her up. Her vision blurred as she tried to support herself. She felt like someone was using a dull knife to cut apart her right leg from the inside out. She almost lost balance but Webb kept her steady. The east side of the roof had collapsed, exposing the lower floors. Flames and smoke rose from below where broken bodies littered the wreckage. The demolished balustrade offered an unobstructed view of the Washington Monument.

Webb pushed her toward the edge of the promenade. She tried to fight back, afraid he was going to throw her off the roof, but he stopped inches from the precipice. His grip on her arm tightened. “Is this what you wanted? You and your Directorate?”

Two fireballs split the midsection of the Washington Monument. Chunks of marble broke away and plummeted to the ground. The fire turned to smoke as the upper half of the obelisk tilted sideways. Then the base gave way and the monument broke apart. The upper half struck the ground point-first and divided into two tremendous fragments. All that remained standing was the base, which now resembled a snapped bone jutting from the earth.

Webb grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. “Well?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Are you happy with this?” Webb waved his hand out across the cityscape. Smoke darkened the sky. In the distance, the Capitol Building’s dome had collapsed, leaving little left to distinguish the structure from the other burning buildings surrounding it.

“This isn’t my fault. You’re about to do the same thing to Cheyenne Mountain.”

“Cheyenne Mountain is a military installation. This is a city. You’re killing civilians!”

“So what do you expect me to do?”

Webb set her on the ground. He was surprisingly gentle. “I can’t stop them.”

“And?”

“Do you want to see all of this destroyed? You may not care about our people but if you’re so intent on rebuilding this country, how does that make you feel?” He pointed at the ruins of the Washington Monument. The sight made her sick to her stomach. She looked away. Her vision was blurry with tears but she tried to convince herself it was only the smoke. She had wanted to see and touch every one of the monuments and memorials within DC. Now, they were all broken and burning.

She again spotted the body of Specialist Fleming. Blood had pooled beneath him, leaking out from around the gory piece of shrapnel. This is the NEA’s fault. This war is their fault. We’re only doing what it takes to win. She shook her head, brought her left knee up close to her chest, and tried to block out the explosions, the heat, and the smoke.

Is this right? Would Dad have ordered this? What would he want me to do? She tried to picture her father but instead of his face, she saw only Martin’s mask and steel-blue eyes. Webb crouched in front of her. He held her handgun by the slide, outstretched. She stared at the weapon and then up into the black membrane.

“What are you…?”

“Take it.” He thrust the weapon at her. As if on reflex, she grabbed the handgun and yanked the slide out of his hand. She looked at the magazine well and noticed it was empty.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Are you willing to stop those things?” Webb gestured up at a formation of drones.

“Why can’t you?”

“They’re blocking me.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t take out the drones. I can’t stop all these missiles. I think you can.”

“How am I supposed to do anything with you…” Her voice trailed off as she looked at the gun. She pulled back on the weapon’s slide, half hoping and half worried there would be a bullet in the chamber. It was empty.

”Hit me,” he said, touching his temple. “Hit me with that. I can’t block you if I’m unconscious.”

“What?” she said in disbelief.

“Do it!” Webb shouted.

She changed her grip on the handgun to hold the weapon by the barrel. She raised it hesitantly but didn’t swing. Hit him! This is your chance! She brought the gun back and stared at a spot just above Webb’s right brow. She pictured the steel magazine well slamming into his skull and cracking it open. The image was both satisfying and disgusting. She recalled his horrible grin moments before he had shot her father. She remembered him standing above Nicole with the bloody knife in his hand. However, she was unable to bring her arm forward.

“Stop wasting time!” Webb said. “People are dying out there! Do you understand that? Do you even care?”

“I… I—”

Webb slapped her across the face. She almost dropped the handgun out of surprise. Then she felt the stinging pain. “Screw you! Why should I help you, you freak? You can all die for all I care!”

“Do you know what I’m most proud of?” Webb said with a sneer. “No matter what happens, I’ll be remembered as the one who shot Henry Bedford. You should hope he never wakes up; it would kill him to know that his daughter is a coward. You can’t even—”

The handgun’s pistol grip crashed into Webb’s forehead. At first, Alex was unaware she had swung the weapon. Webb crumpled back and put a hand to his face. Blood trickled from between his fingers. He cursed and punched the concrete.

“Why… are you so… useless?” Webb groaned. He took his hand away from his forehead. Blood leaked through a rip in the black membrane. He looked up at her and clenched both of his hands into fists. “Do it right you stupid—”

Alex swung. She closed her eyes at the last second. The impact of the handgun against Webb’s skull traveled up her arm into her shoulder. There was a loud crack and then a thump. When she looked, Webb lay on his side unmoving. She stared at him. Is he dead? Did I kill him?

She crawled over and placed her index and middle finger just below Webb’s jaw. Cold sweat formed on the back of her neck. There was nothing. What does it matter? Why do you even care if he’s dead? Then as she continued to probe for his carotid artery, she felt a faint pulse.

Fire erupted from the East Wing. The shockwave blew her hair across her face and temporarily blinded her with a cloud of soot and ash from the already burning Executive Residence. She coughed and tried to shield her eyes from the smoldering heat and thick smoke. She crawled up to the remains of the balustrade and pulled herself up. She found she could stand as long as she kept her weight off her right leg. For a moment, she thought she had passed into unconsciousness and was experiencing a nightmare, a vision of the end of the world. The sky was reddish-brown and the sun was little more than a faint orange circle of light. The horizon glimmered and danced with the spreading fire and collapsing buildings. It was difficult to pick out the drones against the smoke. Then she spotted three of the aircraft flying in a V-shaped formation along the north bank of the Potomac.

Do you really want to do this? Those drones are unmanned but they’re still on our side. If you do this, it’s treason.

Then she thought, Those missiles have almost hit me twice now. The Committee must not know I’m here. Maybe I can signal the Reagan somehow. Maybe they can send a rescue team.

She tracked the movement of the lead drone. The aircraft’s glossy black surface reflected the inferno below. The machines appeared graceful even against the background of destruction. She closed her eyes. The drone’s silhouette resolved for an instant before a blast of white and a shrill howl wiped it away. Her knees buckled, and she barely managed to hold herself upright by grabbing the parapet. The cry was like an animal screaming as it went to the slaughter. Bile burned in her throat while a crushing pressure clamped her skull.

The white turned black. Everything went silent. A ruddy glow asserted itself against the darkness, outlining a perfect sphere, which glistened and rippled with violets, greens, and oranges as if mimicking oil within a puddle. Voices, faint and unintelligible, whispered into her mind. The sphere receded into the outline of the drone. Slowly, the details emerged: the airframe, the gaps between panels, the ailerons on each wing raising and lowering. She went deeper and found weapons bays containing missiles and guided bombs, compartments and conduits full of sensors and circuitry. And in the center, darkness, a blurry aura resisting her invasion. She focused against it. The whispers grew louder and more frantic. She pictured herself grasping the black aura in her hands and digging in with her nails. Warm liquid trickled through her fingers like blood, seeping from the darkness as she struggled to rip it in half.

A scream of pain resolved the darkness into a black shard, tiny, almost microscopic. She wanted it. The object started to blur again, to fight to protect itself. Alex clenched her hand. The darkness shattered. Icy cold enveloped her body. It was not painful or even uncomfortable.

The sphere returned, floating now above a gaping crater of ice. A swirling black storm obscured the atmosphere. Thunderous explosions accompanied bolts of red lightning arcing through the clouds. Her perspective shifted. She flew over snow-covered plateaus and mountains before submerging beneath the turbulent waves off the glacial coast. In the murky darkness, a cigar-like object ascended toward the surface. A submarine.

She entered the submarine. The crewmembers writhed on the floor. Blood flowed from their eyes and ears. On the bridge, an officer tried to reach up to a red button in the middle of a terminal. He coughed a red spray onto his uniform. He seemed about to collapse but with a grunt of pain, he managed to thrust his hand over the button and slam down with his palm. A klaxon sounded as the bridge shook. The officer slid to the ground and twitched before going still.

She ascended above the water. The waves split into fountains of white as missiles launched from the submarine’s silos, resembling great sea creatures leaping into the sky. The missiles left behind columns of smoke that soon vanished against the winds from the shoreline.

She followed the missiles high above the ocean and then into a steep arc down toward the earth. Within the eye of the storm, a black mass bubbled from the surface of the sphere. The missiles plummeted while maneuvering to aim at points on all sides of the sphere. The dark mass formed into a whip-like appendage, which lunged outward and struck one of the warheads. A nuclear flash replaced the sky.

Alex shut her eyes. A momentary scream reverberated within her consciousness in the moment before an explosive shockwave and the roar of the world breaking apart obliterated all other sounds. When she opened her eyes, mushroom clouds dominated the skyline. The sphere was gone but part of the black tendril lay severed at the mouth of the crater, bleeding rivers of dark fluid that froze while spreading across the ice.

The vision faded.

The odor of burning air returned as the fiery skyline of Washington resolved. Near the Potomac, the two remaining drones continued to glide along the waters. The lead drone had crashed into the riverbank, leaving a smoking crater. The remaining UCAVs veered upward and altered course to fly east. The other drones mirrored their actions, fleeing in a panicked withdrawal. They had given up all sense of formation and resembled birds making a free-for-all escape from a predator.

She reached out for the closest aircraft. This time, there was no interference. She penetrated the metal skin, the wires, weapons, and sensors and found the black aura at the center of the machine. She tore into it. The drone twisted and corkscrewed in midair. Alex held on. She imagined herself biting into a ripe fruit. Her teeth sunk in, and she tasted something bitter like iron. The drone went silent. She barely felt or cared when the aircraft slammed into the earth and detonated.

One after the other, she struck at the drones. With each kill, she became more efficient, and with each kill, she wanted more. Her skin was ice cold. She ripped another aircraft from the sky and let out a sharp breath as her body quivered. She could see herself standing at the edge of the White House roof. Black lines stood out across her neck and face: veins bulging as if about to burst from her flesh. Her lips drew back and exposed her teeth. Her eyes were red.

Her perspective shifted to the burning ruins of Washington. She could reach out across it all, grasp everything, see and feel the minute details of every building: the flutings of the massive white columns at the Lincoln Memorial, the coarse dinosaur fossils in the Smithsonian, and the shattered marble of the collapsed Washington Monument.

Faint vapor rose and dissipated in the breeze. It was her breath, taking form like during winter, but that was impossible with the fire and smoke and ash in the atmosphere. Yet somehow, she was cold. She looked down at her hands, at the black lines in her palms, lines that should have been blue. The cold intensified with every beat of her heart. And with that cold came the hunger. It was how she sometimes felt when she looked at Shepherd, when he stood beside her or held her in his arms, but this was more powerful, impossible to suppress. It was pleasure, a kind she had felt with such intensity only once before: during the slaughter at Kansas City.

She sent her consciousness out beyond the White House and up through the smoke filling the sky. The drones were gone, but if she concentrated, she could pursue them. Their speed even propelled by screaming afterburners, was too slow.

Except there were other targets – easier targets. They were hiding all around her just out of sight. They were in old bomb shelters that smelled of mildew. They were in the debris-littered streets, scrambling about in panic. They were trying to find their friends and coworkers. Others were standing in shock and staring into the sky. Many were bleeding, some dying, more already dead. They were men and women, the enemy, the New England Alliance. She sensed each one of them, heard and felt their heartbeats and the flow of blood through their veins.

Take them. They’re responsible for Dad. For Nicole. For Hensley and Neill. For Park and Fletcher and Williams and O’Brian and everyone that’s died since the war started.

Her awareness penetrated into the earth below the East Wing, into a bunker full of men and equipment. Resnick and Martin and dozens of advisors stood in a conference room, staring at screens showing the destruction of Washington. She focused on Resnick, on his expression of hatred and rage.

“I want them destroyed,” Resnick said. “I want the Directorate erased from this continent. Do whatever it takes, General.”

Martin looked down at the floor, away from the screens, and then sat in a chair and stared at his reflection in the polished surface of the meeting room table.

You can save them. You can save everyone in the Directorate. Kill everyone here. Now.

She felt something inside fighting to escape, something barely contained, held back by nothing more than an unraveling strand of rope. It wanted blood and death and to find and kill everyone in the city, to swallow them just as she had consumed the Committee’s drones. Faces intruded on her consciousness. She heard whispers, indistinct at first, men and women all speaking at once. The voices worked themselves into synchronization, and she realized the single word all of them were chanting – her name. The voices surrounded her, closed in, and begged her to lash out.

No! Stop this! It was a feeble scream from the back of her mind. She tried to hold on to it, but the voices were too much.

The rope snapped. She gave up trying to struggle and let the other, primal part of herself take control. She couldn’t fight it; the feelings were too overwhelming. There was the hunger, but more, it was the pleasure she knew would come as she tore through the men and women. They were crops, stalks of wheat ready to harvest and cut down. Alex retreated and found a safe, dark corner. She sat, pulled her legs close to her body, and wrapped her arms around her knees. In front of her stood a huge screen like a movie theater. The screen displayed jumbled images: Washington, the faces, the smoke and fire, the blood. As she watched, the part of her in control leapt forward to feed.

Her focus went to the survivors closest to the Executive Residence. Not those underground in the bunker – not yet – but the men and women on the streets, bleeding from shrapnel wounds or burnt by the flames. Then everything froze. The edges of the movie screen went white. She felt heat, and distantly, pain in her forehead and the sides of her skull. The faces receded into the background, to the sides where the whiteness moved in like wildfire. Webb sat on the ground, awake now, looking up at her as blood leaked from his nose. He vanished, and the faces returned. Everything turned red. The white flames began to recede. She watched from her dark corner.

Get up! It was the small voice again but this time louder. Stand up and fight! What would Shepherd think if he saw you right now? What about Dad? What about Mom?

The voice triggered something, a last reservoir of willpower. Alex tried to stand but something fought her attempt to intervene: an oppressive force, applying pressure from all sides and trying to keep her in place, to lock her down and never let go. It was not enough. She broke free, stood, and stared at the screen.

The pressure vanished, and she realized where it was going – it was fleeing from her and bearing down on the helpless men and women in the street. It was going to consume them, to take as many of them as it could before she regained control. Alex leapt forward and smashed into the screen.

Her vision returned. She was back behind her own eyes, no longer watching from the movie theater. But the hunger persisted, and there was pain. She was down on her knees, clutching at her head. Two scenes faded against each other. The first was through her eyes: Webb on his hands and knees and bleeding from his nose as he crawled toward a submachine gun one of the soldiers had dropped on the roof. The other vision contained the faces. One of them was a young woman. A flap of loose skin hung from her forehead. Blood leaked into the woman’s eyes. It was this image that gave Alex the sense of pleasure and made her skin tingle and her heart beat faster. And it was that image, she knew, that if it gained control, would mean the death of everyone in the city.

“Help me,” she whispered.

Webb stopped and looked back. She tried to focus on his face, to see the black membrane and the yellow glow beneath. She reached toward him in a helpless gesture.

“S-Stop me. Make it end. Kill me if you have to. Just—”

NO! Her voice screamed, a petulant child throwing a temper tantrum. Kill him! What are you doing?! This is what you want! All of them! Kill them and end the war! Save your father and everyone else! He’s the enemy! He can’t help you!

“Please,” she said.

Webb tried to stand but then gave up and crawled toward her. They were face-to-face. She wanted to shut her eyes and block out the pain, the hunger, everything, but she forced herself to stare into the black membrane. Webb’s hand moved toward her eyes. The pain in her head magnified. His fingers touched her skin. Her skull was on the verge of shattering into a thousand pieces.

White light overpowered Webb and all the faces. The world went away.