‘When you didn’t come outta the hotel, we knew the ’wolves had snatched you, so we went back to Park East,’ Rico said, chewing noisily on some gum. ‘There were all these weird guys there in, like, radiation suits or something.’

‘Hazard squad,’ Stacy explained. ‘Your parents are isolated. No one can get to them.’

‘Shame we can’t say the same about us,’ said Jasmine, looking around nervously.

‘And while I was busy organising everything for them,’ Stacy went on, ‘some thugs ransacked my laboratory. Took all the serum samples I had.’

‘I heard Takapa discuss it with Swagger,’ Tom interrupted her. ‘He and Marcie will be in the arena now. The fighting must’ve started. I wish I knew where Kate was.’

Stacy looked surprised. ‘I thought she’d be locked up with you?’

‘Takapa and Marcie said they were still looking for her. So either she escaped from Swagger or else …’ Tom sighed. ‘Where’s Jicaque? How’d you hook up with him?’

Stacy frowned as she stared about into the shadows that pooled thickly in each corner of the hall. ‘He was waiting in my lab at the hospital – had to hide when the thugs came searching for the serum. He came and found me, said he was here to gather us together; that we would be allies for one final battle. But now I don’t know—’

‘I am here.’

Tom whirled around to find Jicaque standing right behind him, wearing a long dark overcoat over a shabby linen suit. His deep brown eyes seemed troubled. ‘Tell me, Tom, have those poor souls caged in the locker room been given their fix of Stacy’s serum?’

‘I guess so,’ Tom reported. ‘They were due a dose at six.’

Jicaque nodded gravely. ‘There will be terrible bloodshed tonight.’

‘So what do we do?’ Jasmine wondered aloud. ‘I guess getting the hell out of here ain’t an option?’

‘Not without Kate,’ Tom shot at her.

Jicaque nodded. ‘We must get inside the arena. Stop this madness once and for all.’

‘Nice thought,’ said Stacy. ‘Any practical ideas how we do that?’

But Jicaque had already turned on his heel and was striding away, his long silver hair trailing behind him like a comet’s tail, his dark overcoat flapping about his ankles.

He led them along the dank corridor and up a flight of crumbling stairs. ‘This leads to the upper tiers of the seating,’ Jicaque informed them. ‘The lower entrances are blocked to prevent any escape attempts by those forced to fight.’

The stairway ended in a set of peeling double doors. Beyond them, rising in volume and pitch, the unmistakable sounds of violent battle carried: shouts and crashes and shrieks of agony.

Jicaque tried the doors, but they wouldn’t budge. Tom lent his weight, pulling on the handles with all his strength, but it was a hopeless task. The doors were locked firm.