—
Five seconds and fifty-one degrees ago, the microphone dropped from Mia’s numb fingers. It crashed at her feet, among the shards of Eric Salgado’s coffee mug.
She knew exactly how he died now.
A gloved fist struck the door, knocking away a frozen patch of wood. The blonde in the hall was barely an inch taller than Mia. The lines around her sharp blue eyes revealed her as an older woman. Mia could see from her thick white parka that she was also much, much warmer.
She registered Mia through a wide, unblinking stare. “God. You really are just a kid.”
Mia desperately scanned her memory, trying to recall the note she’d received about the Winter Blonde. Her future self had given her the woman’s full name and advised Mia to use it as a stalling tactic. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember it now.
“I didn’t do anything to you! Please don’t kill me!”
The blonde’s voice cracked with anguish. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this. But I have a daughter your age. She has to live.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“I’m afraid it has everything to do with you. All of you. I’m so sorry. There’s no other option.”
The blonde took a step back. Thick tears ran under her mask.
“This’ll be quick. I promise.”
As Mia felt her entire future whittle down to milliseconds, she closed her eyes and thought about her family. If there was truly justice in the multiverse, then she would travel back across the great divide and rest in the afterlife with her dad, her brothers, and Nana. She didn’t want to end up in this world’s Heaven, where she’d only know one or two Salgados.
Suddenly a pair of radiant orbs materialized in front of the woman’s eyes. She covered her face just as a piercing electronic squeal—an echo of the feedback that had blared from all speakers a minute ago—erupted inside her ears. She fell to the ground screaming.
By the time Mia dared to open her eyes, David faced her through the broken door. He pointed to a metal prod hanging on the wall.
“Can I have that, please?”
“What?”
“The baton, Mia. The zapper. I need it. Quickly.”
With shaking hands, Mia tossed the weapon to David. He studied every side of it until he found the power switch. Now he jabbed the electric end at the back of the Winter Blonde’s head. She shrieked again, then fell silent.
Mia stared at David, dumbfounded. “She was going to kill me.”
“I know. I saw. Listen to me—”
“She was going to kill me!”
David grabbed her shoulder. “Mia, I know you’re upset but you have to pull it together. Please. We’re not safe yet.”
Krista Bloom. Her name was Krista Bloom. Mia recalled the note now. Too little, too late. She remembered a few other things as well.
“Oh no! Zack!”
She spun around to the monitors, only to find that her view of the upstairs hallway had gone dark. The cameras had been shot and killed by a very dangerous man.
—
Theo slid down the blood-flecked wall. He couldn’t help but wonder if his latest move had been a first attempt at heroics or merely a second try at suicide.
In either case, he knew he’d failed. A last-second twitch had thrust a less vital piece of himself into the path of the bullet. It cut a nasty gash across his arm, slicing the skin before piercing the wall. As he examined the mess below his T-shirt sleeve, his legs gave out and he slumped to the floor.
While keeping Zack pinned to the elevator, Rebel turned to look at Theo. Something had gone wrong. He’d foreseen the bullet’s entire journey before pulling the trigger. In his thoughts, he watched it go right through Theo’s heart.
Perplexed, Rebel re-aimed his weapon at Theo. Once again he took a glimpse into the immediate future, checking to see if his shot would connect.
The vision he received, though accurate, was not good news at all.
“No!”
He had just enough time to face Zack, right as the cartoonist rediscovered his weirdness.
Suddenly Rebel’s gun flared with cool white light. A thousand needles of pain covered every corner of his hand. Bellowing, he dropped his gun and hostage.
Zack stumbled backward, startled by his results. He’d focused his thoughts on rusting Rebel’s weapon. Now the revolver lay on the ground, nine weeks older but still very functional. Rebel’s hand, however, had become a gruesome horror. The skin was white and bloodless, with scaly splotches of rot. His fingernails had turned a gangrenous black.
He lashed out with his good arm, striking Zack in the jaw and knocking him down to the carpet. Rebel stooped to reclaim his gun from the floor, testing its weight and feel in his left hand.
“Son of a bitch.” He groaned as a new wave of pain overtook him. “I swear to God, if this kills me—”