“I would stay in the room and observe the outcome, but in this suit? It’s new and rather lovely.”

There was no chance. They started coming closer.

“Articulate!” Myron shouted.

Everyone stopped for a second. Myron dropped to the floor and braced himself.

That was when the wall exploded.

The sound was deafening. The wall gave way as though the Incredible Hulk had burst through from the street. The others were caught off guard, Myron not so much. He knew that Win would come up with something. He had figured that Win would find a way past the cameras. He hadn’t. He said he had cased the place last night. He had found the exterior wall to this room. He had probably placed a strong listening device on it, so he would know when to make a move.

Had he used some sort of dynamite or rocket-propelled grenade?

Myron didn’t know.

Shock and awe, baby. Win’s forte.

The guys in the room didn’t know what hit them. But they would.

Myron moved fast. From his position on the floor, he snaked his leg out and took one of the guys down. It was Pants Two. Myron grabbed the man’s knife hand. Pants Two, running on pure survival instinct, held on tight. That was okay. Myron counted on that. He had no intention of trying to wrestle the knife away. Instead, holding the man by the wrist, Myron jerked his hand upward.

The blade, still being gripped by the guy’s hand, lodged into Pants Two’s throat.

Blood spurted. And the hand dropped away.

The knife made a noise like a wet, sucking pop as Myron pulled it free. The rest was pandemonium. The dust from the collapsed wall made it difficult to see. Myron could hear coughing and shouts. The commotion must have gotten the attention of the guy standing guard in the corridor.

When he opened the door, Myron was on him. He landed a punch straight to the nose, driving the man back into the corridor. Myron stayed on him. He didn’t want to kill anyone else if he didn’t have to. He threw another punch. The guy staggered back against the wall. Myron grabbed him by the throat and placed the tip of the bloody knife right up against the guy’s eye.

“Please!”

“How do I get to the basement?”

“The door on the left. Code 8787.”

Myron punched the guy in the stomach, let him slide to the floor, and ran. He found the door, hit the code, pushed it open.

The first thing that hit him, almost knocking him back, was the stench.

There are few things that cause déjà vu like powerful odors. Something like that was happening here. Myron was traveling back to his basketball days, to the stink of a locker room after a game, the wheeled laundry carts loaded up with the sweat-filled socks, shirts, and athletic supporters of adolescents. The smell had been awful, but after a game or practice, when it was something as pure as previously clean boys playing basketball, there had been an underlying sweetness that made the smell, if not pleasant, tolerable.