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  Slayne flicked off the toggle switch and said with the patient air of an adult explaining to a ten-year-old, “As you may have gathered by now, this vehicle is modified for special use. It’s the gem in Tekco’s fleet, the only one of its kind. But then, being the chief exec has its perks.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re the head of Tekco Security? You run the whole company?”

  “Run it. Founded it. Made it the premier global security firm,” Slayne said with no small pride.

  Alf exclaimed, “That’s where I’ve seen you before! Your picture has been in magazines and on the news.”

  Slayne frowned. “It wasn’t notoriety I sought. To be effective in my line of work I need to keep a low profile.” His frown changed to a wry smile. “Listen to me. Talking as if the world will go on as usual.” He shook his head, then flicked the same toggle switch and addressed the hidden microphone. “I’ll give you ten extra seconds. This is your last warning.”

  Only a few drivers had complied. Several laughed or smirked as if it were some kind of joke. One man flipped his middle finger.

  “There’s our problem, right there,” Patrick Slayne said to Deepak and Alf.

  “What is?”

  “Stupidity. It’s been the downfall of the human race. Once the stupid ones outnumber the ones who give a damn, society disintegrates.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hold on tight,” Slayne said, and placed the tip of his finger on a red button low on the dash. “There’s quite a recoil.”

  “Quite a what?” Deepak wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

  Slayne turned the wheel so the Hunster was pointed at a wall to one side of the jam. He pressed the red button. The Hunster thundered and bucked and an explosion rocked the wall. Bits and chunks of concrete flew every which way, some as big as a basketball, most considerably smaller. People screamed. Those not in cars dived for cover.

  A swirling cloud of dust enveloped everything.

  Deepak peered into it, afraid of what he would see. Gradually the dust began to clear. He saw a few people bleeding but no bodies. Most of the vehicles caught in the hail of concrete had broken windshields and busted windows. “What have you done?”

  “I’m getting you out of here.” Slayne accelerated toward a huge hole in the wall. Or, rather, what was left of the wall next to the hole. “Brace yourselves. The battering ram can punch through concrete like it’s paper, but there will still be a jolt.”

  There was. The sound was like the blast of a cannon. More of the wall shattered to bits, and through the gaping hole roared the Hunster.

  Deepak looked back at the people who had been hurt by flying debris. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you have a conscience? Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.” Slayne turned up a ramp and the Hunster shoved a dust-caked hybrid out of the way with casual mechanical ease.

  “Those were people! Living, breathing human beings. You hurt them. We should stop and help.”

  “No time. And if you don’t mind some advice, you really should get hold of yourself.”

  Deepak tried to release the catch on his seat belt, but it wouldn’t work. He tore at the belt. “Let me out. I’ve had enough. Tell Kurt Carpenter I no longer want to be part of his Endworld Protocol.”

  “The what?” Alf said.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Slayne responded as he steered the Hunster around a compact.

  “I’ve changed my mind, I tell you. I have that right. I wish the best for Mr. Carpenter, but I refuse to have anything to do with you.”

  “You’re locked in.”

  “I’m what?”

  “You stay that way until I decide otherwise.”

  “You’re insane.”

  Patrick Slayne let out a sigh. “I’m one of the most rational people you’ll ever meet, Mr. Kapur.”

  “It was wrong what you did.”

  “The only wrong is not to do the best you can at anything you put your mind to.”

  “You can’t force me to go.”

  “Hold that thought.” Slayne raced around a minivan and the Hunster burst from the bowels of a skyscraper onto East 52nd Street only half a dozen blocks from the East River. He turned right and braked sharply.

  Ahead was a scene out of a disaster movie. Panicked people were running every which way. They didn’t bother using crosswalks but darted in front of moving cars and trucks with no regard for their safety. Fortunately, traffic was moving at a crawl, partly due to congestion, and in part because more than a few drivers had abandoned their vehicles and joined the mad rush, their empty cars and trucks adding to the snarl.

  Near the river a black column of smoke curled into the hazy sky. To the south was another, only the smoke was gray.

  “Why don’t I hear anything?” Alf asked.

  Deepak had been wondering the same thing. Save for the muffled throb of the power house under the hood, inside the Hunster they could hear themselves breathe.

  “I killed the outside feed to spare our ears when I used the grenade launcher.” Slayne flicked yet another toggle switch.

  The interior blared with the discordant symphony of civilization in collapse. Shouts, curses, wails, screams, horns, and sirens assaulted the senses in a continuous barrage.

  “How can it fall apart so fast?” Deepak marveled.

  “Because the only thing holding it together was the fear of being arrested and thrown behind bars,” Slayne said. “When all is said and done, the cop on the beat was the glue that held civilization together.”

  “That’s so . . .” Deepak had to think to find the right word, “. . .cynical.”

  “It’s realistic. Strip away those who enforce the laws we live by and those laws become so much hot air. Look around you. These people are looking out for number one. They don’t give a damn about right and wrong.” Slayne pressed the gas pedal and the Hunster growled into motion.

  Deepak turned to Alf. “Can you believe this guy? He’s like someone out of the Dark Ages.”

  “I agree with him.”

  “You’re kidding. Alf, I’ve known you for, what, five years now? You’ve never once—”

  Alf suddenly pointed and exclaimed excitedly, “Look!”

  A young woman was fleeing along a sidewalk. In close pursuit came two men in scruffy clothes. She was almost abreast of an alley when she tripped and fell. The men were on her before she could rise. She fought them, kicking and shrieking, but they hauled her into the alley anyway.

  “We’ve got to help her,” Deepak urged.

  “No.”

  “But they’ll rape her, maybe even kill her. Are you telling me you can let that happen?”

  Slayne scowled, and slammed on the brakes. He was out of the Hunster in a bound and ran to the alley.

  Deepak saw Slayne draw his gun. He heard two swift cracks. Then Slayne came sprinting back and climbed in. “What did you do?”

  “What did it look like?”

  “You shot them?”

  “I saved the woman. But you need to catch up with reality. You can’t seem to get it through your head that my top priority is getting you of New York City in one piece. We can’t afford any more distractions.”

  Deepak rarely cursed. His parents, both Hindus, deplored the habit, and he had never picked it up. But he cursed now, adding, “Damn it, Slayne. What manner of man are you?”

  “The kind who does what he’s told. Now quiet. I have some serious driving to do.”

  The streets were a chaotic nightmare. Stalled and abandoned vehicles, traffic backed up for blocks, pedestrians madly dashing to and fro, looters; New York City was bedlam unleashed.

  Again and again Deepak tried to break free of the seat restraint and couldn’t. Finally he resigned himself to the inevitable. Disgusted, he slumped back and glanced at Alf, who had been strangely quiet. “Are you all right? You haven’t said anything for blocks.”

  Putting a finger to his lips, Alf
whispered, “Shhhh. He’s forgotten about me and I want to keep it that way. I’m safer in here with you than out there.” Alf gestured at the madness running rampant.

  Deepak had forgotten that Slayne had threatened to toss out his friend. He nodded in understanding and sought to keep Slayne distracted by saying, “Can you at least tell me how you intend to reach Carpenter’s compound? I’m entitled to know that much, aren’t I?”

  Slayne patted the steering wheel. “You’re sitting in it.”

  “In this? It could take weeks. What will you do for fuel? This behemoth can’t get more than six miles to the gallon.”

  “Thirty-one. It’s a hybrid. I intend to reach the compound in three days. No more, no less.”

  Deepak was skeptical. “You can’t stay awake for seventy-two hours.”

  “That’s why caffeine pills were invented. But I won’t have to so long as we average forty miles an hour for twelve hours out of every twenty-four.” Slayne wagged a finger at him. “Now for the last time, be a good little computer nerd and keep your mouth shut.”

  Simmering, Deepak lapsed into silence. He began to keenly regret ever agreeing to Kurt Carpenter’s offer. At the time, it had seemed smart, what with world tensions being what they were. In hindsight he had shown great foresight. But he had never foreseen this.

  Deepak expected his abductor, as he had begun to regard Patrick Slayne, to make for one of the tunnels or maybe even the George Washington Bridge, but instead he noticed they were winding toward the Hudson River, specifically, the piers in the vicinity of the heliport. He mentioned this fact out loud.

  “I have to get you out of Manhattan. The bridges are all jammed. The tunnels, too. That leaves my contingency plan.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’ll see in a few minutes.”

  Deepak bunched his fists. The man could be exasperating. He contained his impatience and was soon rewarded with the surprising sight of a dilapidated ware house at the water’s edge. A structure so old, the sign was faded and blistered. He did make out an H and an L. “Surely not.”

  “The best place to hide something is in plain sight.” Slayne stopped at a rusted gate that opened remarkably quietly when he slid a plastic card into a slot.

  As he drove up to wide double doors, Slayne activated a switch. The doors rose on recessed rollers. Gloom enveloped them, then was relieved in a blaze of overhead florescent lights.

  Alf pressed his nose to the glass. “I should pinch myself to be sure I’m awake.”

  The ware house was immense. Unlike its exterior, the interior was a model of modernity. In contrast, mothballed in perfect condition, were old cars, old aircraft, and seacraft.

  “Is this a museum?” Deepak asked.

  “It belonged to one of the richest men of his day and age. A philanthropist, you might call him. A friend of a friend of an ancestor of mine.” Slayne drove past a panel truck.

  Alf grinned like a kid at a dinosaur exhibit. “I love this stuff. There’s a submarine.”

  Slayne drove down the wide center aisle to what Deepak took to be a ferry afloat between thick pilings. On its bow was the name Kull. The gangway was down. Slayne drove up it and stopped on the foredeck. “Everyone out.”

  “Where’s the crew?” Alf asked.

  “You’re looking at it.”

  Deepak wasn’t asked to help, and he didn’t. Slayne cast off the lines and climbed to the wheel house. Belowdecks the engine throbbed to life and the Kull edged toward a gigantic corrugated door. Just when Deepak was convinced they would smash into it, gears meshed, chains clanked and the door rose.

  With superb finesse, Patrick Slayne steered the darkened ferry out into the Hudson.

  Alf nudged Deepak. “Why isn’t he using running lights?”

  Before Deepak could answer, the night reverberated to the blare of a ship’s horn and he looked up in horror to see a vessel bearing down on them.

  Day of Wrath

  Pennsylvania

  Trudale was being looted. From his picture window on the second floor of his home, Soren Anderson saw men and women emerge from homes carrying laptops, stereo equipment and TV sets. One of the women carried a jewelry box under one arm and held a sparkling necklace.

  “Why are they doing that?” Freya asked. “It’s not right.”

  Magni raised wide eyes to his parents. “Will they come in here, Dad? Will they take all our stuff?”

  Soren came to a quick decision. As yet, the looters were only at the turnoff into Wyndemere Circle. It would take them minutes yet to reach his place. Or so he hoped. “Grab your things and get in the truck. We’re leaving.”

  “I haven’t finished packing,” Toril objected. “There’s more I’d like to take. Especially if we’re never coming back.”

  “What?” Freya said.

  The looters approached the Simmons residence. Soren knew the family well; they often came over. George Simmons blocked his front door and tried to prevent the mob from entering. Simmons was pushed and shoved but refused to give way. Finally a burly man in grubby jeans and a T-shirt knocked Simmons down and others kicked and punched him senseless. Another moment and they were in his house. A scream wavered on the air.

  “Odin protect us,” Toril breathed. “Kids, do as your father says. Grab what you can and get to the truck.” She dashed off with them in tow.

  Soren ran down the stairs and out into the driveway. More screams and wails came from all quarters. A window burst with a tremendous crash. In the distance gunfire crackled. He considered going to the Simmonses’ to see if he could help, but it would be folly to leave his own family unprotected. He turned to go back in.

  Three human wolves were bounding along the hedge that bordered the next yard. In the lead was the same burly brute who had knocked down George Simmons. They came around the hedge, spotted Soren, and stopped.

  “Nice truck you’ve got there, buddy,” the burly one said.

  “Leave.”

  The leader glanced at his companions, and the three spread out. One of them had a baseball bat. The third man flourished a folding knife with a six-inch blade.

  Smiling smugly, the leader advanced and held out his hand. “Give us the keys and we’ll let you be.”

  “No.” Soren brought Mjolnir from behind his leg.

  All three of them stopped.

  “What the hell is that? A hammer?” The burly man laughed a hollow laugh that was echoed by his friends. “Mister, you give us any trouble, I swear to God I’ll take that from you and beat your brains out.”

  “Go away.” Soren held Mjolnir low in front of him and turned slightly so he could keep his eye on all three. The other two had started to circle. “I’m warning you.”

  A piercing shriek testified to the spreading savagery.

  “You hear that?” the burly man said. “You got a family? You want that to happen to them? Hand over the damn keys and you can walk away.”

  Toril came running out, toting her suitcase. She stopped short and gasped. “Soren, what. . .?”

  “Stay where you are,” Soren warned.

  The three regarded her with glittering eyes. The burly one licked his lips and chuckled. “Well, now. This changes things. She’s a looker, your woman. Might be I want a taste of that for myself.”

  Toril said angrily, “You’re a pig.”

  “Look around you, lady. This ain’t Disneyland no more. It’s everyone for himself. We take what we want, when we want it, and I want you.”

  Soren had listened to enough. The insult to his wife made his blood boil.

  He moved between them and Toril. “This is your last chance.”

  The burly man reached behind him and when his hand reappeared he held a butcher knife. “Cutting you will be fun.”

  Soren waited. His senses were incredibly acute: he could hear Toril’s heavy breathing behind him; he could see beads of sweat on the burly man’s brow; he saw the muscles on the arms of the man with the baseball bat tighten as the man prepared to atta
ck.

  They came in a rush. The bat arced at Soren’s head. Sidestepping, Soren swung. Mjolnir and the baseball bat smashed together and the bat shattered and splintered.

  The man with the pocketknife tried to stab Soren in the neck, but spinning, Soren caught him in the ribs.

  Swearing luridly, the burly man darted in.

  “Soren!” Toril cried.

  Soren had seen him. Whirling, he swept his hammer up and around. The heavy steel head caught the man flush on his jaw. A loud crunch, an explosion of teeth and blood, and the burly man was down.

  Soren swiveled to face the guy who’d had the baseball bat, but he was fleeing pell-mell down Wyndemere Circle. A warm hand touched his.

  “Are you all right? Did they cut you?”

  Soren could barely think for the throbbing in his temples. “No,” he said thickly. “Get the kids. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Toril nodded and took a step but looked back at him and smiled. “You were magnificent.”

  Blood dripped from Mjolnir. Soren wiped the hammer clean on the burly man’s T-shirt and held it up to the sunlight so the metal gleamed brightly. “Sweet Asgard.” He shook himself and held Mjolnir higher. “To the son of Odin I give thanks. Protect and deliver us from our enemies. A true son of Thor asks this in your name.”

  Smiling grimly, Soren scanned Wyndemere Circle to be sure none of the other looters were near, then hurried inside to help Toril. He felt strangely elated. Newfound vitality coursed through his veins.

  Toril was shooing the kids ahead of her. Both had bulging backpacks and Magni was protesting, “But, Mom, I want my GamePro. And what about my skimboard?”

  “Enough,” Soren said sternly. “You will do as your mother says without argument. Is that understood?”

  Magni was startled. “Sorry.”

  Freya had been gnawing on her lower lip. “Where are we going, Dad? Do you know somewhere safe?”

  “Anywhere is safer than here.” Soren hustled them to the pickup. He gave Magni and Freya a boost into the backseat.

  A man holding a busted chair leg came running toward them but stopped at the sight of the crumpled forms in the driveway.