Polestar Omega. James Axler

with sarcasm. “We’ve got to make our move now, before they weaken us any more. We’ve got to create our own opportunity while we still have the chance. When they come again and unchain one of us, we go for them.”

      “Yeah, we’ll go for broke,” J.B. said.

      “When they came to take Ryan, there were only two of the bruisers in black,” Krysty said. “Two against four. If the whitecoat shows up again, he isn’t going to be much of an obstacle. We just have to keep him from sounding an alarm. Whoever they release from the wall next has to maneuver both of the men in black within reach of the rest of us, whatever that takes. Our legs are free to kick and to strangle with. We can bite and tear. This is to the death.”

      They all loosened their muscles as best they could given their restraints, jumping up and down in place to get warm, practicing forward snap kicks. After a few minutes they were as ready for the battle as they were ever going to be.

      But nothing happened. The door didn’t open.

      Time dragged on and on, and the longer it dragged, the harder it became to maintain the necessary fighting edge. Krysty felt it slipping from her grasp.

      She strained her ears, trying to pick up approaching footsteps in the hall. What she heard instead was a rocking boom, like a couple of pounds of C-4 had been touched off close by; the explosion was immediately followed by a violent jolt that staggered her and nearly dropped her to her knees. The boom faded, but the jolt replayed over and over again in a roaring, jarring tape loop. As the room shook back and forth, every surface flexing, a crack appeared in the center of the floor and snaked toward them.

      The crack climbed up the wall behind them, yawning wider and wider, and a rush of frigid air rolled through the room.

      Krysty gripped the metal ring behind her with both hands. She could feel the ring’s anchor bolt vibrating in the wall, grinding the surrounding concrete to powder and loosening its hold on the metal shaft. From the awkward arm position she attacked the ring, twisting it as hard as she could, trying to wrench it free, but the anchor was too long and too deeply embedded.

      The shaking seemed like it was never going to end; everything became a blur of frantic motion. When it stopped after a very long minute or so, Krysty and her companions were dusted head to foot with gray powder and left gasping for air in a room that looked like it was filled with gun smoke. The pulverized concrete in the back of her throat scratched like ground glass.

      She was still coughing and spitting when not two, but four men in black entered with the silver-haired whitecoat and a female whitecoat in tow. They carried locking collars on six-foot-long metal poles, and they knew how to use them.

      Krysty tried to defend herself with a front kick, but it came up well short. The loop dropped over her head, and she found herself snared by the neck. When she tried to lash out another kick, the man with the pole pulled down, tipping her off-balance and controlling her with ease. The more she struggled the tighter he squeezed the noose around her throat. She stopped struggling so she could breathe; it was either that or pass out. J.B., Jak and Ricky were all in the same predicament—snared like rabbits and rendered helpless. Dr. Lima stepped in behind Krysty and disconnected her cuffs from the wall ring. He did the same for the others.

      “This way, bring them along,” he told the black suits as he stepped through the doorway and exited the room.