At first it had seemed like a miracle, the fact that there was an underground garage opening right there and that we’d all managed to get into it before anybody was hit—at least until the metal gate came rattling down and we realized our attackers hadn’t so much targeted us as herded us directly into a trap.
“Drop ‘em, now!” came a voice, even as we spun in its direction and raised our weapons—and quickly realized there was nothing to shoot at. Nothing visible, at any rate. What there was, however, were tiny red dots—on our foreheads, over our hearts.
“You see them. Good,” said the voice, just as cool as iced tea—the perfect accompaniment to the clatter of shifting firearms. “And now you’re going to bend down ... slowly ... and lay all your weapons at your feet. All right? Nooo one has t
