The door remains shut when Allenby tugs on the handle. A man appears in the window, his thinning gray hair combed back tight, his light blue eyes wide with fear. I see Allenby's lips moving, mouthing the words, "Help us," without letting the crowd hear. She's smart. Understands people.

I pause on the edge of the sidewalk, unsure if we're going to make it off the street or if I'm going to reenact the battle of Thermopylae, by myself, while Allenby and Blair make a futile run for it.

For a moment, the old man doesn't move, but the way Allenby is able to plead for her life, just with her eyes, is impressive. The man nods and unlocks the door.

The heavy, painted green door opens, its well-oiled hinges slipping silently, until-jing jing. A bell at the top of the door clangs loudly. The crowd starts, bouncing back like someone has just fired a gun.

The old man pushes the door open wide, allowing Allenby and Blair to hurry inside. I make a step to follow, but am stopped by movement at the fringe of my vision. The large man, whose build, crooked nose, and response to the ringing bell suggests a pugilistic history, strides toward me. I could get inside without facing him, but a man of his bulk would make short work of the door.

"You the jacka.s.s who switched on the music?" the pugilist asks as he wipes his nose with both thumbs, makes twin sledgehammer fists, and starts bobbing.

"Yes," I tell him.

The crowd around us buzzes with excitement, eager for the violence to begin.

"I thought it was an ambulance," I add. The statement makes the man pause for a moment, long enough for him to notice that I'm not backing away, nor have I taken up a fighting stance.

"Ain't you afraid?" he asks.

I jab. The fast strike slips past his defenses, crushes his nose, and staggers him back. Before he has a chance to realize I've broken his nose, I kick him square in the nuts. The great thing about having no social fear is that I can fight dirty and not feel bad about it later. The pugilist howls and drops to his knees. I finish him off with a roundhouse kick that knocks him unconscious and spills him into the road. He'll live, but he might not be able to reproduce, which is my little gift to the world today.

I glance at the crowd, which is stunned by the sudden and extreme violence. It's more than they bargained for and didn't go the way they expected. But it won't hold them back forever, and now that I've hurt one of their own, they'll be out for blood.

Moving casually, I step toward the shop and slip through the door, carefully closing and locking it behind me.

The shop is full of eclectic antiques. There's a tall 1950s radio, glowing with power. A stained-gla.s.s lamp. A medieval helmet opened to reveal a secret decanter and shot gla.s.ses. I feel like there is someone I would like to tell about all this, but there isn't anyone. My only friends are Shotgun Jones and Seymour, and their tastes run a little closer to the c.r.a.p given away on The Price Is Right.

"Crazy," Allenby says. She takes my wrist and pulls me away from the door. "This is Matt Williams."

The old man nods at me.

"How can we get to the roof?" I ask.

He points up. "I live on the second floor. Fire escape goes to the roof. Stairs are around back." He starts leading the way but isn't going anywhere fast.

I snap my fingers at Blair. "Get to the roof. Make sure the chopper knows where we are."

Blair runs for the back of the store. I hear his feet thundering up the staircase a moment later.

"Help Mr. Williams to the roof," I say to Allenby. "I'll try to slow them down."

When Allenby reaches out to take Williams's arm, he shrugs away. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my store, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if I let them hooligans make a mess of things." He hobbles behind the counter and retrieves a shotgun. He struggles with the pump action for a moment but manages to chamber a sh.e.l.l. "I've seen war before."

War?

"And I'm not afraid to shoot the first of those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to come through my door."

I pat his shoulder, say, "Thank you," and head for the back of the store.

Allenby rushes up behind me and says, "We can't just leave him! They'll kill him."

"Do you want to stay because you think it will change his fate? Or is it because you fear being ridiculed later on for leaving an old man to die? If it's the latter, I won't say a word. If it's the former, you're a fool. He chose his path. Respect it." I start up the rugged stairs without looking back.

One of the shopwindows shatters. Allenby starts up the stairs, revealing her personal truth-her life is worth more than her honor. There is no help we can provide for Williams that will avoid his death. But ours ... we still have some control over how our lives come to a close. At least for a few more minutes.

The apartment above the store smells like history-dust and mold hidden within the folds of countless overfull bookshelves. If the fire outside reaches this building, the apartment will all but explode. This much brittle, dry paper will ignite like gasoline.

"Here!" Blair shouts from the back.

We hurry through the living room to the kitchen, which is equally packed with old books. A pile of them has been spilled on the floor, apparently shoved away by Blair, who is peering back in through an open window above the spilled books. He waves us on. "This way!"

Blair's feet clang on the fire escape as he runs toward the roof.

A second window breaks beneath us. It's followed by a shotgun blast, a scream, and then the sound of thunder as countless people stream into the shop. If Williams screamed, the sound was blocked out by the rumbling, which I can now feel in the floorboards beneath my feet.

Allenby crawls through the window, but not nearly fast enough. My hand hits her a.s.s and shoves. She spills forward with a shout of surprise. I dive through, spin around, and close the window. As Allenby starts to protest about her rough treatment, I lie down on top of her, which fills her with enough fear to close her mouth.

"If you stand, they'll see you," I whisper. "Crawl away before standing, but quickly. It won't take long for them to figure out why the books have spilled."

She nods and slides forward. I hold my weight off of her and follow, but our stealth is a wasted effort. The window behind us shatters as a book-an old leather-bound Bible-careens through, strikes the black metal railing, and explodes into a flurry of ancient pages. A baseball bat begins clearing away the remaining gla.s.s shards.

"Go!" I shout as the distant chop of a helicopter reaches my ears. "I'll hold them here."

"But..." she says, clearly confused about why I would stand my ground here but not downstairs.

"They can't overwhelm me here," I say.

She understands, and runs up the stairs to the second story. I glance up and see Blair climbing a ladder to the roof. The helicopter sounds about a minute out. It will take nearly that long for Allenby to reach the roof. One minute, I tell myself and then turn to face the first person through the window, which is actually a pair of people, one holding a knife, the other a Louisville Slugger.

The pair pauses for a moment. That I'm standing my ground has them wary, no doubt recalling the pugilist's crumpled form.

"You're going to have to get close to use those," I say, pointing at their weapons.

For a brief moment, my logic seems to seep through. Both men look unsure, confused, and ready for a beer. But then the hairs on their arms rise up. The man with the knife shivers. With the suddenness of a fired bullet, they're both back on task, refueled by fear of something greater than me, and ready to kill.

The man with the bat steps forward. The muscles of his tattooed forearm twitch as he twists his hands around the grip. "Not that close."

I shrug. "Your funeral." And I mean it. These men would kill me. I have no qualms about returning the favor. Even if I could feel fear, a jail sentence or return to SafeHaven wouldn't be on my list. Not in this situation. I'm not only defending myself, I'm defending two other people.

Bat-man steps closer. He's got the Slugger c.o.c.ked back, twisting around in tight circles. A real Jose Canseco.

I wait patiently.

He steps into his swing, grunting his power into the weapon. But his aim is off. I don't even need to duck. Clearly, he's never killed anyone before, which begs the question: Why does he want to kill me? I'm never going to get a chance to ask him. The powerful missed swing overextends him. I close the short distance between us, catch his arms, and spin him around.

The man shouts in fear, but not because of me. His overeager friend has lunged with the knife and is plunging it toward where I was supposed to be. If the knife continues its arc, it will plunge into bat-man's heart.

Only it doesn't.

I'm struck by something as heavy as a cartoon anvil-mercy. Back when these people were an angry mob, I could have driven through them without a second thought, but I can see now that they're out of their minds. Not themselves, and not really deserving of my wrath. Not all of it, anyway.

I twist the bat in front of the knife. The blade bounces off the wooden barrel. A quick shove knocks the bat into the man's forehead. He drops the knife and stumbles back against the railing as a third person-a girl-next-door type-crawls out the window.

The h.e.l.l is going on?

These people seem like they need to be in SafeHaven more than Seymour. They're out of their heads. Terrified to the point of rage.

With a quick twist, bat-man's wrists overextend, and he relinquishes the bat. I spin him around and pull back my fist to slug him, but he's done. The man raises his hands, finally more afraid of me than whatever brought him to this point. "Who are you?" he asks.

I pick up the knife. "I have no idea."

Shattering gla.s.s turns my gaze upward, but back down just as quickly. Gla.s.s rains down from above, breaking into smaller pieces as it strikes the grated metal stairs. When I'm finally able to look up again, girl next door is charging, fingers hooked, a scream building in her throat. Above me, a man leaps through the window and starts up after Allenby. He's fast.

I sidestep the girl, tripping her with my foot and elbowing her in the back. She spills forward, introducing her forehead to the railing behind me. She slumps down to the fire escape floor, blood running down her face.

As more people pour through the window, I start up the stairs, armed with a bat and two knives-one ceramic, one stainless steel. For a moment, I feel good about my chances for surviving this mess. Allenby's life is still at risk, but I can do a lot of damage to a lot of people with a knife and bat. My positive outlook changes when I reach the third story and bullets start flying. Someone inside the apartment fires three times. Only two of the bullets make it through the window, each of them sending sparks into the air as they strike the fire escape's metal framework.

I run past without slowing or flinching. The missed bullets have as little effect on me as a shift in the breeze or a degree change in the temperature. I'm two flights higher when the shooter makes it to the window and starts firing up. But there are two levels of metal between us, and the rounds don't make it far.

At the top story, I quickly take stock of the situation. Loud chopping and billowing dust, both the results of a helicopter's rotor blades, mean our ride has arrived. But Allenby and her pursuer are nowhere in sight.

I discard the bat, slip one blade beneath my belt, pop the second sideways in my mouth, and leap onto the ladder like a pirate boarding a merchant's vessel. I bound up the rungs, jump the wall at the top, and take in the scene. Allenby is on the tar-paper roof, crawling away from her attacker, a spindly man with a pipe. I don't think she's been struck yet, but the man is just seconds from delivering his first blow. Beyond them is the helicopter, a black number with no identifying marks, hovering a few feet above the roof. Blair sits inside looking paralyzed with fear. I see no weapons, meaning I'm the only hope Allenby has.

As I climb over the roof's short wall, I shout, "Hey!" but the man doesn't turn. He's locked on target.

I run at him, taking aim with the ceramic knife. It's a nice blade. Sharp. Well balanced. But it's not a throwing knife. The odds of hitting the man with the blade are fifty-fifty. But I only need to hit him hard enough to get his attention.

The pipe comes up in sync with Allenby raising her arms. The defensive posture will save her life from the first blow, but she'll have two broken arms for the effort. Twenty feet from the man, I throw the ceramic knife. The man doesn't see it coming but twists just right as he steps over Allenby, and the blade sails past. The second knife is in the air a fraction of a second later.

The pipe descends.

The b.u.t.t of the knife strikes the man's right shoulder, knocking his strike off center, but the pipe will still connect with one of Allenby's arms.

Except it doesn't.

She surprises the attacker and me by rolling to the side at the last moment and kicking the man's knee. He yelps in pain and jumps back but isn't deterred. He raises the pipe for another strike but never gets the chance.

My shoulder strikes the man, midspine, as I ram him, lift him off the ground, and then slam him to the roof. There's a loud crack as all my weight is transferred to the man's spine via my shoulder. He screams in pain, still alive, but when I stand up, he's not moving anything below the neck.

I turn to Allenby, who is now on her feet. "I knew you were military."

She turns for the chopper. "Once upon a time."

"Better hurry," I say, pushing her along. "The next person has a gun."

The helicopter lowers as we approach, allowing us to board by stepping on the skid and climbing in through the side door. Blair helps Allenby inside but leaves me to climb in by myself. As I find my seat and slide the side door shut, bullets punch into the metal where my head had been a moment before.

The pilot takes us up and away, blinding the gunman with a cloud of dust and roof grime. As we ascend, I lean to the window and look down. It's Manchester, New Hampshire, all right, but I've never seen it like this. The streets are alive with people. Vehicles and some buildings are burning. The mob rushes forward. Ahead of them, a line of riot police, each holding a clear bullet-resistant shield, wait.

Molotov c.o.c.ktails sail through the air, accompanied by rocks, and then bullets. The police respond with tear gas, water cannons, and then bullets of their own. War indeed.

"Hard to believe," Allenby says.

Not really, I think, except for one detail. While scenes like this have played out all around the world for one reason or another, this is New Hampshire. It's 90 percent forested, has a culture of holding people accountable for their actions, and the lowest murder rate in the country. How could this level of violence seep into one of the nation's quietest states? Even more pressing, how can a city I don't remember visiting be so familiar, and why the h.e.l.l do I know so much about New Hampshire?

The helicopter races toward the roof of what appears to be a black Mayan pyramid. As we descend, I can see the faint outlines of the tinted windows that make up the building's flat, forty-five-degree angled walls. At the center of two sides of the building, the smooth slope is divided by what looks like giant staircases, each "step" a story tall, completing the Mayan feel. I count nine levels. The top level is three hundred feet across. Maybe more. The bottom is at least three times that. The building is surrounded by tall pines, and the roof is just below the tree line. Despite its size, the megalithic building would be invisible to anyone on the ground. Not exactly covert since anyone in the air can look down and see it, but the single access road winding through the woods is blocked by a gate. And while I can't see it, I have no doubt that the entire facility is surrounded by a fence. Anyone interested in the building is going to have a hard time reaching it.

Which begs the question, why am I here?

"You're not going to a.s.similate me?" I ask. The pilot, Blair, and Allenby can all hear me over the thunderous rotors thanks to the headsets we're wearing.

"What?" Blair asks. He's still shaken up by our experience in Manchester. "I don't-"

"Resistance is futile," Allenby says. She slides up next to me and looks out the window. "It does smack of the Borg, doesn't it? But no worries, the collective isn't interested in the likes of you."

I smile at her. "If you were younger and prettier-" I stop as my logical mind puts the brakes on the statement my lack of fear let slip.

Allenby gets a good laugh out of it, though. Slaps my shoulder. "Oh, you." Her demeanor is casual. Comfortable. I find this strange, but perhaps it's just a result of being inst.i.tutionalized in a place where most everyone is afraid of me.

The helicopter touches down on a black landing pad at the center of the roof. As the rotor slows, Allenby slides the door open and hops out. There is no greeting party, just a flat black surface and a halo of pine-tree tops surrounding us. The scent of the deep woods is invigorating. I breathe deeply and step out.

"Follow me," Allenby says, almost shouting to be heard over the still-slowing rotor blades. I fall in line behind her as we walk across the roof. "Some ground rules. Don't talk to anyone who doesn't first talk to you."

"That's a strange rule," I point out. "Kind of old-world parental discipline."

"It's just that most people here are working on something, in their heads, even when they don't appear to be working at all."

"I see," I say, but I really don't. I stop walking.

After a few steps, Allenby notices I've stopped. She turns back. "What?"

"Why am I here?"

"To not be there," she says, and I get her meaning.

"Anywhere is better than SafeHaven?" I say. "I'm not sure I believe that. From what it looks like, once I set foot inside this building, no one will know I'm here."

Allenby grins. "And if I don't tell you?"

"I'm going to run."

"And get caught."

I shake my head. "I think you know that's not what will happen. You have five seconds to tell me why I'm here. Five ... four..."

Allenby grunts and stomps her foot. "You're infuriating. Fine."

I grin, but also note she didn't wait until I got to one, or until I started running. She believed me. Trusted what I said. I haven't been given that kind of respect in a long time, and I appreciate it despite the circ.u.mstances.