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back at Threshold before he'd used them up, the younger you were, the higher the initial dose, the better
chance you had of surviving exposure to T-Stroke and developing the Talents that Robert Lintel needed.
He didn't have any more time to mess around handing out free samples to dozens of people to get one or
two Survivors. He needed broad-based success and fast.
"Okay, you! Sabatini! Is this everyone?" he barked.
"Everyone in the building, sir," Sabatini said. Robert had brought the cream of his surviving security
troops here with him. The eight of them were loyal and smart enough to know that they were implicated
in everything Threshold had done so far. They needed Robert's protection and Robert needed what
these children could provide.
"We've got all the exits sealed. Nobody goes in or out," Sabatini said.
"Good." Street hookers and runaways were no match for trained professionals. His men had taken
the place over before half of them realized they were being invaded, and within minutes his operatives
had searched the whole building and rounded all of the squatters up and brought them here.
The funny thing was, not one of them had fought back. Robert had seen this kind of behavior before.
Most people took a certain amount of time to work themselves up to physical resistance in a traumatic
situation. Often the difference between the amateur and the professional was their quickness off the
starting blocks, not their martial arts skill. The amateur might be just as proficient as the professional, but
it took him longer to make up his mind that the situation required violence. And that was the difference
between success and failure. So to keep any would-be heroes off balance, Robert'd had his prisoners
slapped around a little once he'd gained control of the squat, just to drive home who was boss now. The
children huddled together like a pack of orphaned kittens, wearing lace and leather, lipstick and sequins,
the tawdry finery of a pack of Lost Boys and Girls who would never live to reach Neverland. They'd
seen the uniforms and the guns, collected a few bruises, and now not one of them was willing to do so
much as complain, no matter what he did to them.
They might get their spunk back in a few hours, but by then it would be far too late. In fact, it was
too late right about...
"Now. Start dosing them."
Angel and Sabatini shouldered through the circle of huddled children. Of the twenty-four men who'd
been in Central Park last night, only these eight remained, but that was more than enough for his
purposes. In fact, when he got what he wanted here, they'd be disposable, too.
Robert had brought one of those pressure injectors with him from the lab, and all the T-6/157 he
could find. Even after the random doses they'd put out on the streets over the last two days, there were
several kilos left more than enough to build an army with. As Angel held a gun to their heads, Sabatini
injected the street kids one by one with a double dose of T-Stroke. Most of them didn't even make it
into a sitting position before passing out.
Robert smiled his approval as the last of the street kids dropped unconscious to the ground.
"Sir?" Elkanah asked. "What do we do with the ones that go crazy? If we put them out on the street,
they might lead someone back here."
"Put them down in the basement." On his earlier reconnoitre of the building, Robert had seen that the
steps to the cellar were gone. Anyone thrown down there assuming they survived the eighteen-foot
drop would have no way of getting back out again. "Put the dead ones down there, too. They might as
well have some company."
Sabatini was sorting the limp bodies now. Two thirds of the kids were still alive. So I was right
about younger subjects surviving better. All to the good. There'll be no lack of subjects.
Thousands of kids vanish every year, Robert thought.
Almost as soon as the dead bodies were cleared away, the Screamers started to awaken. They
were harder to dispose of than he'd expected; supernatural strength seemed to go hand-in-hand with
violent psychosis, and his operatives had to play rough. Fortunately only five of the surviving subjects
needed that treatment, and with the doors between the kitchen and the front room shut, he couldn't even
hear them screaming once they'd been dumped in the basement.
And if their presence lured that pointy-eared claim-jumper Aerune back again, that was all to the
good. A steel knife through the gut should settle him down and make him see reason.
Soon, the Survivors started to rouse, staring around themselves with wide, disbelieving eyes. There
was a skinny blonde brat who seemed to be their leader. She glared at Lintel in terrified defiance, her
mascara running down her painted cheeks in thick black streaks.
It doesn't get any better than this, Robert thought gloatingly. This was always the best part,
watching someone who was too terrified of him to run away. Campbell had been an exemplary employee
in many respects, but she'd never been properly afraid of him. Maybe he'd look her up and change that,
once he had this situation squared away to his liking. He looked around for some place to sit, found
nothing, and resigned himself to standing. He wouldn't be here for more than a few hours, anyway.
After that, he'd be taking the war to the enemy.
"Now " he said, smiling predatorially at the Survivors. "This is what I want you to do...."
Ria hadn't slept all night, and neither had a lot of people in the West Coast offices. She'd dragged
Jonathan out of bed with her midnight phone call, but Ria was too angry about her discovery to care: she
wanted action and she wanted it now.
Jonathan delivered, gods bless him. It hadn't taken him long to get the first of the answers she
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