Chaos. The crash had drawn a crowd out of the club, and now they were at the truck, yanking open boxes, carrying off shirts—a purple-haired woman ran by carrying an armload. A young Hispanic man lifted two large boxes.

“No …” Martin’s voice sounded slurred and weak. “No, stop … hey, stop them, they’re taking—”

The Hulk looked where he pointed, and shrugged philosophically.

“Hey, dude, I’m just the bouncer, I ain’t the cops. Fact is, I got a couple boxes stashed in my car right now.”

Martin gritted his teeth and moved. He got one leg out the door, then the other, but when he tried to stand up, he fell over. The Hulk steadied him.

“Not a genius idea, man.”

“I have to stop them,” he said. It sounded stupid, and it was stupid, but he had to do something, any-thing. He staggered off toward the looting. The Hulk followed him at a casual distance.

Martin tried to take a sweatshirt out of the hands of a young woman wearing orange leather. By the time he got up again, she was gone, heading for a decrepit Pinto.

He grabbed hold of a middle-aged man in a business suit, and got an elbow in ribs that already felt like confetti. He sat down on the pavement to think about it, head down, and felt a hand on his shoulder.

“It was good of you to try to stop them,” said a quiet male voice. The accent sounded English. Martin cradled his head in his hands. The splintering noise wasn’t just in his head, after all—sirens, approaching in the distance. The man squeezed his shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “Such a tragedy.”

“Had to try,” Martin mumbled, and looked up. The man bending over him was about his own age, dressed in a dark sweater and khaki pants, a thick down parka with fur around the hood. He had a smooth Arabic complexion and large soulful eyes. And a smile.

He knew that face. From—where?

“I see you know me,” the man said, and it clicked. Fathi el Haddiz. Carling’s terrorist. “I’m afraid I don’t know you. Were you driving the car? If so, my congratulations. Quite a solid hit. You might even have accomplished your mission, if this hadn’t happened. People are so greedy, don’t you think?”

He produced a gun from a pocket and pointed it casually at Martin’s chest. Martin swallowed hard.

“If you’re looking for your coworker, the younger man, I’m afraid he’s dead. Head trauma. The old woman is injured, but not seriously, as long as someone keeps pressure on her wound.” Haddiz’s face went very still. The eyes didn’t look soulful anymore. “I’m sure you understand why I can’t allow you to live.”

He leaned over and put the barrel of the gun to Martin’s forehead.