Countdown

CHAPTER ONE

It's called nyctophobia. I looked it up once. It's the official term for an abnormal and persistent fear of the dark. I've had it ever since my parents and sister were murdered during an in-home burglary and I hid under my bed.

In the dark I couldn't see anything. I could just hear the screaming.

And then the silence.

So, yeah. I've been scared shitless of the dark ever since. Go figure.

Unfortunately, that's exactly where I found myself when I opened my eyes. Frankly, I don't even remember closing them. I'd been in the mall-I remembered that much. I'd just lifted a new pair of shoes because my old pair was practically worn out, since all I do is walk everywhere in the city, day in and day out. This pair was nice. Red. With strong laces that, if necessary, could double as a weapon.

The streets were tough sometimes. Especially at night. Especially in the dark.

Like right now.

But this wasn't the street; I knew that much. I was inside.

Somewhere.

I couldn't concentrate, though, due to the choking panic that began to flood my body. I knew it wasn't going to do a hell of a lot to freak out, but sometimes you just can't stop yourself-or reason with yourself-when you're in the process of freaking out.

I felt a pinch at my right wrist and reached over with my other hand, blindly trying to feel my way through the inky blackness. It was a metal cuff. Attached to a chain. Attached to the smooth, cold metal wall behind me.

What the hell was going on here?

Had I been caught shoplifting? Was this prison? I racked my brain but came up blank. No, I'd grabbed the shoes, shoved them under my coat, and left the store to go into the half-abandoned mall, where I put them on, throwing my old shoes in a garbage can. And then … then what happened?

I remember wanting to grab some food. I had two bucks to my name, so I figured I could buy a small order of french fries at one of the few restaurants that were still open there. That would last me a day before my stomach would start complaining again.

Did I even make it to the food court?

I couldn't have. I was still hungry. Starving. My body felt like it was eating itself, but that was a bit of an exaggeration, I guess. Yesterday I'd had an entire meal. Ordered off the menu even, and then tried to skip out before the bill came. The owner of the diner caught me, reprimanded me, and I figured that that was it-he'd call the cops.

Instead he took pity on me and just made me wash dishes. It was a humbling experience, but I'd had a lot of those since my family died.

In the end, I did appreciate his kindness. Washing dishes was a hell of a lot better than going to prison.

It was just me now. For the past seven years, on my own since I was fifteen. Not a good time to lose your family, not that there's ever a good time for that. We weren't rich, but we weren't poor, either. My father was a scientist who taught classes at the university and he made decent

enough money. Back then I was safe and relatively happy and free to do what I wanted with the love of my family to support me. But once they were gone I had nothing. The courts wanted to put me into foster care, but I'd run instead. A friend of mine went into foster care a long time ago and I never heard from her again. Not even an e-mail.

Okay, breathe, Kira, I told myself. And I did. I took a deep breath in through my nose and let it out through my mouth. I could hear my heart thudding hard in my ears.

Why couldn't I remember what happened after I took the shoes? Dammit. And where the hell was I?

I seriously had to calm the hell down. It wasn't helping.

I took another breath in and out and then I forced myself to listen. For something. Anything. There had to be something other than this total silence that told me absolutely nothing helpful.

I listened.

And then I heard… something. I pushed my distracting fears out of the way as best I could and strained my ears.

Breathing. I could hear breathing. Very softly.

Somebody else is in the room with me.

This realization did not help to ease my mind. Just the opposite. Just thinking that somebody was in there, in the darkness with me, scared me enough that I almost started to cry.

But I was a tough chick now. At least, that was what I tried to tell myself every morning when I woke up to face another day. This shouldn't be any different.

"H-h-hello?" Stuttering does not help the situation, I thought. "Who's there?"

The breathing hitched. I heard something heavy shift against the floor around fifteen feet away.

Then the something spoke. "Wh-what the fuck?"

A male voice. His words were gruff and raspy, as if he'd just woken from a deep sleep.

"Who are you?" I ventured again.

Dammit. Why did I sound so weak? I hated that.

He cleared his throat and groaned. "Shit."

Well, he did seem to have a fine command of the English language.

I strained to see something, but there was only black. "Tell me who you are."

There was a pause, and then another groan. It actually sounded like a moan of pain as I heard him shift his position again.

I frowned. "Hey, are you okay?"

He snorted at that. "Fantastic. I'm just fantastic, thanks for asking. And you?"

Sarcasm. Yeah, I recognized that.

"I've been better, actually."

Chains rattled. Not mine, so that meant that this guy was also restrained. But why?

"I'm Rogan," he said dryly after a moment. "So pleased to meet you."

"Where are we?"

"I tell you my name and you don't reciprocate? Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"

"My mother's dead."

That shut him up. Momentarily. "Sorry to hear that."

"It was a long time ago."

"Doesn't make it any easier."

No, that was very true. I swallowed hard. "My name's Kira."

"Well, Kira, where we are is anyone's guess."

I pressed back firmly against the hard wall.

We could be anywhere, and there wasn't a damn thing to give me a clue where that was. Except for the main drags, the city was so vacant that we could be in any one of dozens of abandoned warehouses or factories. And nobody would ever find us.

I'd heard lots of stories about girls who vanished from the streets, never to be heard from again. They weren't stories with happy endings.

"What's the last thing you remember?" I asked. "Who brought you here? Are you chained, too?"

"I remember enough, but not precisely who brought me here. And yeah, they've got me locked up real tight."

"Who would do this?" My voice caught on the words.

"Hey, there. Try to relax."

"I'm relaxed."

"Doesn't sound like it to me."

I banged the back of my head lightly against the metal wall behind me and brought my knees in close to my chest so I could hug them against me. "You sound relaxed enough for the both of us."

"What can I say? So far this is a hell of a lot better than where I came from."

"Oh? And where's that?"

"Saradone."

My blood ran cold at the word. Saradone was the maximum-security prison just outside the city limits. Only the worst criminals were sent there, many for life, most for death. Horrible men who'd done horrible things. Luckily they didn't put girls who stole shoes there yet.

He laughed at my answering silence. 'That's the reaction I thought I might get."

I shouldn't even be talking to this guy. Why would they put somebody like him in the same room as somebody like me? Both of us chained? Like putting a cobra in with a sarcastic mouse. Not exactly evenly matched.

A line of perspiration slid down my back.

"What were you in for?" I tried to make it sound very light and flippant, as if I were just making conversation about the weather.

"Murder," he answered simply.

"Oh." I cleared my throat.

"Not just murder, mind you, but first-degree." There was an edge of weariness to his deep voice. "Nine counts of first-degree murder. They locked me up in Saradone for… I believe the sentence was five hundred years. Kind of funny, if you ask me."

My throat felt thick. Just the thought that I was in the same room with a murderer made me feel like throwing up. I tried to push the memory of my family out of my mind. Why was he sharing this with me? I seriously didn't want to know these things. "What's so funny about it?"

"Five hundred years in prison? It's stupid. A man lives to what, eighty, maybe ninety years old, and that's not even when he's in maximum. In there, if you're not tough enough you're lucky to live to the end of the fucking week."

His sudden humorless laughter seemed to echo off the metal walls.

Okay. So I was trapped in a pitch-black room, chained to the wall, with a mass murderer who found a joke in long-term prison sentences.

Maybe I was dreaming. Yeah. Just having a really bad dream. Maybe I fell and hit my head in the mall and was passed out cold in front of the understaffed burger place in the food court. Maybe some nice, rich, and handsome man would come by and help me. He'd fall immediately in love with me and take me away from it all. Kiss me on the lips like Prince Charming did with Snow White, wake me up from my deep sleep, and we'd ride away into the sunset, away from my past, and into a bright, exciting future, just the two of us.

I blinked against the darkness.

No, I was awake. Definitely awake.

Shit.

"You're quiet all of a sudden," Rogan said. "Don't want to chat anymore?"

"Not particularly."

"Why not? Because you're scared of me now?"

Pretty much, but I wasn't going to let him know that if I could help it.

"No. Mostly because I've decided that you don't know anything that can help me."

"Doesn't mean you have to be rude, you know."

"Rude?" I felt a flare of anger and then settled back, trying to remain calm. My ass hurt from sitting on the hard metal floor, and I shifted position to cross my legs. "Yeah, I'm so rude. Sorry about that. I guess you've been treated so nice at Saradone the past little while that my behavior's a real shocker."

"Four years."

"What?"

'The past little while you spoke of? Four years. That's how long I was in there."

"No offense, but it sounds like you deserved it."

He was silent so long that I felt even more uncomfortable than I had been to start with.

"And are you so innocent?" His words were clipped, sounding as if I'd struck a nerve. "What did you say your name was … Kerry?"

"Kira," I corrected. What a dick this guy was. "I'm not innocent, but I sure as hell won't end up at Saradone."

"Don't be so sure about that. You never know where you're going to end up."

I guess I could thank this asshole for keeping my mind off my fear of the dark. He was getting me angry enough that fear was the last thing on my mind.

I chewed my bottom lip. "I haven't murdered anybody."

"Not yet."

"Not ever."

"Yeah, we'll see about that."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

'They've got you now. They'll make you do whatever they want you to do, and don't kid yourself-you'll do it."

"They? Who are they?"

Rogan went silent.

I could feel my heart pounding in my ears now. "You can't just say something like that and not say anything else. Who are they?"

"The ones who put you here. Who put me here."

"I thought you said you didn't know who put you here?"

"I have an idea."

"Want to share?"

"Maybe not. You're not all that nice." He sounded as if he were smiling now. Was he mocking me?

"I'm not all that nice?" I repeated.

"Is this a surprise to you? Do you normally charm the pants off the men you meet in the dark? Because you're failing big-time with me."

"Who put us in here?" I said it flatly, with no humor or lightness implied. I wanted him to realize I was serious. I wasn't joking around. If he didn't tell me, then I was going to scream and keep screaming until they-whoever the hell they were-dragged me out of there.

"They gave me a choice," he said after a moment. "Stay in jail for as many of my five hundred years as I lived for, or come with them and play their sick little game. What choice did I have? At least here I might have a chance. A small one, but a chance. As soon as I agreed, they knocked me out. And then I woke up here just a few minutes ago to have this fascinating discussion with you. And … and they did something to me when I was unconscious. To my shoulder. I'm hurt pretty badly, but I'm not sure how. Or why. Probably to slow me down." He snorted. "Playing fair isn't exactly their style."

"I didn't agree to this." I pulled at the chain until my wrist felt raw. "I want to leave."

"I'm sure they'll let you. Just like that. Sure." Another snort.

"You said they gave you a choice. Why didn't they give me one?"

"I have no idea." He paused. "You said your mother was dead?"

"Yeah."

"And the rest of your family?"

"All dead." My voice broke a little as I said it.

Silence again. "So you're on your own."

"I have friends. Sometimes. But it's safer to be alone. I can move quicker that way if I have to."

"What did you do? Why would they pick you, other than the fact that you have no family?"

It sounded as if he was talking to himself.

I hissed out a sigh of exasperation. "At the risk of sounding like I'm repeating myself, who the hell are they?"

"You haven't murdered before… so that's out. Are you …" He paused and then laughed softly. "Of course. You must be a thief, aren't you?"

I let the darkness answer the question for me.

"A female thief without a family. Perfect." He let out a long, shuddery breath. "Well, little thief, I have to admit that I'm not feeling so good over here. Whatever they did to me … I don't think they'll have to worry about me finishing off my five hundred years. An eye for an eye and all that."

I licked my dry lips. "You're dying."

"Sure as hell feels like it."

"Why do you sound so calm?"

"What else can I be? There's no escape. Sometimes it's best just to accept your fate."

"Bullshit. There's a way out of here, I know there is."

Just as I said it, the lights flooded on in the room, blinding me. Ironic that since the darkness blinded me the light would, too. Was there no such thing as a happy medium?

I rubbed my eyes, which had started to water at the unexpected light. When I'd gotten used to it, I blinked around at the room as my vision slowly came into focus.

I sat against the wall in an entirely silver room. Floors, ceiling, walls, all made from smooth, cold metal. I'd never seen anything like it before. A silver metal band was around my wrist, and it was attached to a silver chain secured to the wall. It was all very bland, very clinical, clean and pristine.

Almost all.

My gaze moved to the other side of the room and locked with that of the most dangerous man I'd ever seen in my life.

He stared back at me with a half smile on his coarsely beard-stubbled face. His hair was dark and shaggy and unkempt, plastered across his forehead. He wore a shirt that may have once been white, but now was torn and dirty.

An angry red stain on his chest near his left shoulder stood out as the only bright color in the room. No, scratch that. His eyes. They were blue-green-the color of a tropical ocean and surprisingly jarring in their intensity.

There was a scar on his face, from the top of his left eye down to his cheek, like an angry exclamation point. It was still reddish, as if it had healed, but enough time hadn't passed to turn it to the whitish color of old scars. He wore faded jeans, also stained and dirty, and scuffed black boots that were untied. A silver shackle led from his right wrist to the chain to the wall behind him.

He looked like a murderer. Like trouble. Like nobody I wanted to be trapped in a room with now or anytime soon. I was almost sorry that the lights had come on.

"You're prettier than I expected," he said, keeping me locked in his oddly hypnotic gaze.

I swallowed. "Well, you have been in prison for four years."

He smiled. His teeth were white and straight, which struck me as odd from a hardened criminal. Though I suppose it was a bit of a cliche to expect him to have broken, rotting teeth.

"That is true. Sorry I look a bit of a mess." His smile widened. 'They didn't even let me have a shower before they knocked me out and dragged my ass here."

"Forget it."

His gaze slid slowly down to the rest of me, black tank top, khaki cargo pants, and my new red shoes. I felt my face warm at his blatant appraisal, until I saw his eyes move away from my body and toward my side. He frowned. I looked to the floor on my right and gasped.

There was a key lying right there, only an arm's reach away.

CHAPTER TWO

"Try it," Rogan prompted eagerly.

I was way ahead of him. I'd already grabbed the key and found the small keyhole on my shackle, my heart thrumming loud in my ears.

I frowned when it didn't fit. I tried again. Why the hell didn't it fit?

I looked over at Rogan, who stared at me with a deep frown creasing his brow.

"Shit," he said.

Something sparkled next to him and I pointed at it. It was another key. He grabbed it and tried his lock.

Nothing.

Then I heard a whirring and I looked up toward the sound. A small shutter at the top of the far wall to the left near the ceiling had opened, and what looked like a security camera-only modem, very sleek and silver-emerged.

"What the hell is that?" I asked.

He looked up at it grimly. "Must be showtime."

I clenched the key so tightly that I knew it would leave an impression in my fingertips. "Why would they be taping us?"

"Because they like to watch."

"Watch what?" I snapped. "Can you stop being so damn vague and just tell me what's going on?"

But he wasn't looking at me; he was looking at my key. "Now, if I used my great big brain and thought this through, I would have to guess that your key fits my lock and my key fits your lock."

I frowned. "How do you know that?"

"I didn't say I know. I said I guess." The murderer smirked at me. 'Try to pay attention to the class, would you?"

I gritted my teeth. "I don't like you."

"My heart is breaking. Now, why don't you be a good girl and throw that key over here so I can test my theory?"

"Screw you."

He shrugged, then grimaced, as if the wound on his shoulder caused him massive pain. "We can do that too if you like, sweetheart, but I'll need to be unchained first. Then again, we can bring the chains with us if you're into that sort of thing."

I gave him the look I gave to men who tried to pick me up. The losers and the freaks who thought sex was a sport and I was just somebody to score with. In the circles I'd hung out in lately, guys like that were the norm rather than the exception. All the good ones seemed to have left the city long ago. And you know what? With some of them, I played it as good as I could. I knew that I wasn't ugly-that despite living on the streets a little more than I'd like, I had a good body and a nice face and that men were attracted to me. I used it, I played them, and then I took their wallets when they weren't looking.

So sue me.

This guy didn't have a wallet as far as I could see. He had nothing I wanted. Nothing except that key.

I shifted my position into something a little more alluring. Boobs out. I sucked in my stomach. I raised an eyebrow and forced a smile to my lips. "Why don't you throw me your key first?"

He studied me and my sudden change in demeanor. I still wasn't letting him have what he wanted, but the vibe I was giving off was much more.. .friendly. I mean, the guy had been in prison for four years. He had to be a walking hard-on by now, right? I could work with that. A little estrogen thrown his way and he should be putty in my hands.

Dirty, murdering putty. With sexy eyes and a great smile. An unusual combination, to say the least.

He licked his lips and let out a long sigh. "Sweetheart, you're good. If I didn't feel like a pile of shit and that my arm was about to fall off, you might have me, but pain does help one to focus. Your key. Throw it to me. Then I'll throw you mine."

My fake smile slipped. "And when I throw you my key how do I know you'll do the same in return?"

"You'll just have to trust me."

"Give me one good reason why I should."

He stared at me and laughed that short, staccato, humorless laugh. "I'm coming up blank here."

'Then I guess we're both shit out of luck."

"I guess so." A smile twisted his mouth. Then he closed his eyes and pain shadowed his face.

Dammit. I didn't want to feel sympathy for this guy. He was a murderer, just like the bastard who had killed my family. But if that blood was any indication, he was seriously wounded.

Then again, how did I know for sure? Maybe it was just a ruse. Maybe he was acting like he was hurt. After all, that camera did just appear out of nowhere. What did he say a minute ago? Showtime?

The camera whirred again as it changed direction; it turned to point at Rogan.

He pried his eyes open and looked up at it.

Then he gave it the finger.

Suddenly the lights began to flash on and off and an alarm sounded, so loud that I instinctively clamped my hands over my ears. From complete silence to a maddening noise in a split second.

"What's happening?" I yelled.

Rogan's gaze darted frantically around the room.

And then I heard something else. A metallic, computer-generated voice could be heard from speakers I couldn't see, but seemed to come from every direction.

"Sixty…" it announced. "Fifty-nine …fifty-eight… fifty-seven …"

Rogan began struggling hard against his chain. "Shit. Shit! Kira, throw me that key. Right now! Do it!"

"Why? What's happening?"

"It's the countdown!"

Okay, I figured out that much all by myself. If I wasn't so scared out of my mind I'd take the time to roll my eyes at him.

"Which means what?"

His face looked wild. Panicked. He craned his neck to look around the empty room as the lights flashed on and off, plunging us quickly back and forth into darkness and bright like a strobe light in a dance club. "We've wasted too much time."

"Fifty-two …fifty-one …fifty…"

"What happens when it gets to zero?"

He stared across the room at me. "When it gets to zero we die. Do you understand? If you don't throw me that key, in less than fifty seconds we're both going to die!"

"What do you mean? Die? How do you know that?"

"There's no time to explain. I know you don't trust me, but please. Just do what I say so we can live."

I stared at him. No. I couldn't do it. I couldn't trust him. If I threw him the key he'd unlock himself and leave me here. He was a murderer. He'd admitted it. He'd told me that there was no reason he could give me to trust him. And I didn't trust him. I didn't trust anyone but myself.

"Come on!" he yelled.

"Thirty-five … thirty-four… thirty-three…"

I stared blindly around at the metal-walled room. There had to be another way out of here. Who would want to kill us? It didn't make any damn sense. None of this made any damn sense.

Rogan swore so loud it hurt my ears over the alarm and countdown.

"Fine!" he yelled. "Take it! You go first."

He threw the key at me and it landed by my feet. Without thinking twice I grabbed it and worked it into my lock. The shackles popped open immediately.

Just as my bindings were unlocked, a door to my left swung open into more darkness. I eyed it with uncertainty, but just for a moment, before I took a step toward it.

"Wait.. " Rogan held a hand out to me. "What about our deal?"

I hesitated. He was a murderer. Mass murderer. I should leave him there, wherever there was. My family's dying screams echoed in my memory.

I pushed any sympathy I might have away and gave him a cold stare and said nothing.

"Nineteen … eighteen.. seventeen …"

Suddenly, swearing loudly, he slumped back against the wall and looked away from me, his chest heaving with each labored breath. He wasn't going to beg me to help him.

He gave up just like that?

He thought he was going to die-honestly, truly die when the countdown ended. I'd seen it in his eyes. You couldn't fake that. Whether it was true or not didn't matter. He believed it.

I swore under my breath and ran back to grab the key off the ground, then closed the distance between us. I sank to the ground and worked the key into his lock. It snapped open. I quickly got back up to my feet and turned away, glancing over my shoulder at him. He was struggling to get to his feet. It was the shoulder wound-it hurt him badly. He could barely walk.

"Ten … nine … eight…"

I turned back and grabbed him around his waist, practically pulling him through the room with me. He leaned heavily against me.

"Four… three.. two … one."

We were through the door on the last count, and it slammed shut behind us with a deafening, heavy metallic grinding noise that shook the ground.

Rogan groaned and collapsed to his knees. I frowned and reached toward him to touch his shoulder. It was knotted with tension.

"You're seriously hurt."

He blinked at me. "You thought… thought I was faking in there?"

"I wasn't sure."

'Thanks for the help."

I was about to say, "Anytime," which would be the typical response to the statement, but I stopped myself. There was no "anytime" with Rogan or any other murderer. This was it. We'd escaped the room and I was so out of there.

Only there was a little problem.

I still wasn't entirely sure where "there" was.

We'd entered another room. This one didn't look much more interesting than the first one. Only this time I could see the outline of a door with no handle. I walked to it and kicked against it as hard as I could.

"Let me out of here!" I yelled as loud as I could. The sound of my voice echoed against the metal walls.

"That's not going to do anything," Rogan said.

"We'll see about that." I kicked the door again. And again. Until my leg hurt but the door didn't look any worse for wear. I hadn't even made a damn dent.

Finally, panting hard and sweating buckets, I stopped and turned around to Rogan. I thrust a finger in his direction. "Start talking. I want to know everything you know."

He blinked up at me, holding one hand against his wound. "You came back for me."

"Yeah. I did. And don't make me regret my decision."

"I thought you'd leave me to die."

"You still think we would have died if we stayed in there?"

He nodded gravely. "The grinding noise? That was the ceiling clamping down on the floor. Twenty thousand pounds of pressure. I'm just guessing that might have killed us on contact."

I just stared at him for a moment blankly.

"How the hell do you-"

Before I could finish asking him how he'd know something like that, I was interrupted.

"Congratulations, Rogan and Kira, on successfully completing Level One of The Countdown."

It was a disembodied voice coming through unseen loudspeakers, just as the countdown had. I couldn't pinpoint the exact direction, but the sound of it physically hurt, and I cringed against the words.

Unlike the countdown itself, which had a metallic sound that betrayed it as a computer-generated voice, this one sounded very human. Very male. And very smug.

"You son of a bitch," Rogan growled. "Let us out of here!"

"Level One," the voice continued, as if it couldn't hear Rogan's comment or was choosing to ignore it, "is to test your abilities of reason and compatibility. You have won the chance to continue on to Level Two, and due to your performance thus far we have teamed you as partners."

"What the hell is going on here?" I demanded. "I don't even know what you're talking about. I didn't sign up for anything like-"

Suddenly what felt like a bolt of lightning ripped through my brain. I screamed and clamped my hands on either side of my head and fell to the ground as white-hot pain tore through me.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rogan do the same.

The pain vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and I stared around at the room, numb and in shock.

"Wh-what…?" I managed. My throat hurt.

The voice went on as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. "Your implants have been activated and tuned to each other's frequency. Kindly keep in mind that you are playing as a team, and to separate more than ninety feet from your partner will lead to immediate disqualification."

Implants? Frequency? Disqualification?

I scrambled unsteadily to my feet. I felt dizzy and disoriented and I stumbled, finally bracing myself against a cold metal wall.

"I want to know what the hell is happening here," I demanded hoarsely. "I want to be let out of here immediately or I'm calling the police!"

It was an empty threat. The police wouldn't give a crap what happened to somebody like me. I didn't even have any ID. They'd probably end up throwing me in jail for causing a disturbance.

I was on my own.

Rogan looked over at me. He hadn't bothered getting up from the floor. Maybe he was a lot smarter than I was.

"Give up," he said.

"Like hell I will." I moved toward the door and kicked it again, knowing it wouldn't do anything helpful, but feeling the desperate need to lash out. "Come on! Come on, you bastards. Let me the hell out of here!"

I saw a flash of light out of the corner of my eye and turned around slowly. The lights in the room dimmed, and a holoscreen appeared out of nowhere, showing an overhead view of the city.

"What the hell?"

The only time I'd ever seen anything like it was from sneaking in to see an old sci-fi movie at the only theater in the city that was still open. Shit like this didn't exist in real life. Did it?

Well, obviously it did, because I was looking right at it.

I walked around the screen, trying to see where it was projected from, but there was nothing. I touched it and the image flickered and morphed as if I'd just dipped my finger into a shallow pool of water. It was partially transparent, and I could see Rogan on the other side. He looked at me and shook his head.

"It begins," he said.

"What begins? What the hell is happening?" I felt a tear of frustration slip down my right cheek.

On the map a round white glow appeared at an intersection that was otherwise unmarked.

"Level One has been completed successfully," the voice returned. It sounded enthusiastic, and there was an odd singsong quality to the words. "There are six levels to The Countdown. Complete all without suffering disqualification or elimination and you will be considered the winner. Your next level is to reach the marker you see on the map by the time the clock runs out. If you are not successful you will be eliminated from The Countdown. Do not delay. You have fifteen minutes to complete this level. Your time starts now."

The map faded into the image of a ticking clock, and then that also disappeared, leaving me staring directly at Rogan. The lights came up and I felt a draft of cool air touch my bare arms.

I turned to see that the door I'd been kicking had opened up. Beyond it was the outdoors. The city. Familiar territory.

"Kira!" Rogan called after me.

But I barely heard him. I was too busy running.