At the far side of the wall was a set of fold-out closets. Porsche yanked it open. The space was full of boxes stacked atop one another. But in the ceiling was a gaping cavity. Go up there. It's your only chance.

In the closet, Porsche fumbled in the dark and felt for a solid footing. The ceiling had a false top to cover up the concrete and pipes, so she hopped up and reached for the hole.

Sliding aside the gypsum-foam ceiling tile, she placed one foot on the boxes, the other on the top of a wall divider, and heaved herself through the corner hole. It was sturdy. Drop ceilings were reinforced at the corners where two interlocking beams met. Moreover, within the plenum space, thick piping from the sprinkler system ran from room to room. The framework at this spot should hold her weight easily.

But the nurse uniform caught a snag and wouldn't let go, causing her to dangle from the corner hole with her rear hanging below.

Voices from the control room grew nearer. She cursed and tore herself free, ripping a flap from crotch to belly.

Now entirely situated inside the cavity, Porsche gingerly replaced the foam board back onto its place, and bunched together her knees against her chest, butt cheeks balancing on water pipes. She toed her nurse flats onto the edge of the grid beam, careful not to punch a hole through it. From where she was sitting, she could see through the crack into the control room.

The rustling below got louder. There were half a dozen people in there, voices all male. But one had power over the others.

She held her breath to pick out that one voice. She'd heard it before and on numerous occasions, usually during a speech. And it belonged to a very powerful Fednik cum senior officer of TexPax. Victor Balkan. This discovery struck her as strange, like coming across a penguin in the Sahara. Why would someone like him come here? Because he's the Ace of Spades, the one behind all this.

* * *

"I don't have the stomach to see a woman like that," Balkan said, looking through the one-way mirror at Alex.

The prison official hesitated. "I can't agree more."

Just then the hall door opened and John the Inquisitor entered.

Balkan glared at him.

"Cease further questioning with Marlboro."

"As you wish," John said.

"You won't get anything out of her," the man in the corner said. "She knows nothing, you're wasting your time."

"Then, what do you have in mind?" John asked.

"Everyone leave. I will speak with him alone," Balkan ordered as the Control Room emptied. Except for the shadow sitting in the corner. "You stay."

Balkan let his displeasure be known. "I'm tired of having my strings pulled, first by bloated Regents, and now by the thief Lockheart. I want Carnivora delivered in my hand today."

"We have three of his henchmen we can work on," John said.

"Do what needs to be done."

"And her?"

"I would suggest you keep her on ice," the lump in the corner said. "In case nothing pans out and you don't retrieve the Program. You might need a live donor to reverse engineer things, wouldn't you?"

"We also have you," John said, narrowing his eyes at the speaker.

There was an ominous silence between the men.

"No, he's proven useful," Balkan said after musing over. "Move her to isolation for safekeeping, but she doesn't leave Oz." Balkan opened the door and instructed the warden of his decision. "I want her cleaned up. Administer T-Stoff to keep her in good health."

"Yes, sir."

The warden snapped his fingers at Tweedledee and Tweedledum. The portly guards went to the closet where Porsche was a mere three feet above and brought out a blanket.

They entered the tiled room next door, the warden of Oz trailing behind. The three interrogators stepped aside.

The warden looked into her eyes and must have wondered if there was any consciousness. "Bring her to isolation and call the physician, make sure she's okay."

The guards freed her arms first. The prisoner seemed docile enough, not reacting to their touch. They were about to attach the belly chain around Alex when she jerked her arms away, fully awake. She kicked the guards nearest her backward -- and touched her bicep. The other men, including the interviewers, rushed forward . . . but it was too late. Long black hooks protruded from her fingers.

"She's loose," they cried from the other room. "Hold her."

The guards rushed at her, but the claws were out. Alex slashed them both from belly to collarbone, gushing arterial spray. Seeing the violence, the warden bolted for the door. The three interrogators tried to tackle her but Alex's agility was beyond human. She somersaulted over them from her sitting position and gored them from behind.

Those in the control room watched with horror and amazement. No one noticed Lockheart was waking, still strapped to his chair.

"You didn't drain her reservoir," the shadow man screamed at John. "I told you to do that first thing, shit for brains!"

John whipped out a .45 automatic from his shoulder holster.

"That's not going to do shit," the man said. "Stay here, protect him."

"Where you going?"

"To do your job, asshole."

* * *

The starting gate banged open; the black mare, boundless in energy, rocketed off. This was how she'd felt that day in Caracas: Cerberus unleashed, drunk in a blood rage.

Then and now, Alex watched her body perform as if she were detached. She could only marvel at its lethality, muscle memory in total recall, every movement deliberate and exact.

The pain from the shoulder wound had vanished, her muscles relaxed and loosened.

In the time it took droplets to fall, liquid metal had formed and had locked into jagged hooks, its base anchored into her reservoir channels running up her arms. The blades became a part of her hand, her forearm, her limb. With a burst of incredible speed, she launched herself over her captors, cutting through them like a scythe in a wheat field.

The warden managed to escape because he was nearest the exit. She let him go. The prize was before her, strapped to his chair -- the reason she was still alive. Nothing else mattered.

With glaring hatred, she strolled up to Lockheart, taking time to gloat over the assassin. She wanted to understand this infernal animal who had caused her so much pain, and the motives behind it. But his blank expression gave her neither insight nor satisfaction. She expected to see a cowering man, instead, he met her with defiance, even tilting his neck to offer Shiva the Destroyer his carotid artery. He made no attempt at pleading for his life, no quip to buy time, neither explanation nor confession. At this second, it surprised even her. Alex respected his coldness. The bastard knew how to die properly.

Now, his debt will be paid in full. She raised her right hand for the mortal blow . . . When the door banged open.

Her eyes went to the door only to recoil in a shocked disgust that choked her throat, her stomach threatening to rebel. The magnitude of the truth made her head spin, the memories, the pain, none of them able to make sense of the vile rat standing there.

For an instant, she didn't know whom she hated more, the Sandman, or this nemesis, a thorn in her side that had long festered into a poisoned wound. Seeing Warchild unscathed and free could only mean one thing -- he was a fifth column, a traitor.

Warchild stood there, both his arms by his side, his fingers elongated with protruding talons.

"Scumbag," she snarled with outrage, eyes tearing. "You killed your own friends."

"I didn't. I only made a deal after."

"To save your worthless skin."

"If I help them find you." Warchild sneered.

A chuckle near her hip got her attention. "Nothing like a good family feud," Lockheart muttered with satisfaction.

She'd forgotten about Lockheart. She raised one hand over him, fingers extended, ready to decapitate the cause of her misery.

"Stop, you don't want to do that," Warchild said cautiously. "He has Carnivora. Kill him and you kill us all. I got a better proposition -- you and me, winner takes all. It's time we settle this. Or don't you think you can take me?"

She scoffed.

"I've played second fiddle to you since day one."

"Come on then." Alex moved into a fighting stance.

She kicked Lockheart over in his chair and shoved him aside with her foot to clear more room.

Alex and Warchild circled low, talons ready to lock in a death spiral.