His last clear memory was of kneeling in front of a video camera while some Jihadi asswipe screamed at him. He’d known what was coming. He’d known since he and the other members of his patrol were taken from their vehicle after the IED went off in Sadr City.

More screaming. Garcia had been heavily sedated to ensure he wouldn’t ruin the terrorist’s home video. All he felt was irritation. He just wanted the guy to shut up.

The screaming reached a crescendo. He understood the words “Death to America!” Then: nothing.

Now he seemed to drift in and out of consciousness, like waking up to the blare of the clock radio only to hit the snooze button again. Something like that.

His body—well, it didn’t feel like his body, but it seemed to carry him—was moving. There was pain. A lot of pain. It only eased when his arms and legs lashed out against the dim figures in his path.

Again, he didn’t feel like he was doing any of this. Like a dream, it was just happening to him. He could feel the pain as it coursed through his head, but everything else was like grabbing at shadows.

He knew, in some sort of abstract way, that there was a large white building in front of him and he was headed toward it. It felt like he was on rails. None of this seemed to have anything to do with him. Not really.

The shadows kept getting in his way, but they didn’t slow him down. He was sort of curious what kept happening to them.

That was all he got before he sank back down into the dark.

He’d already hit it as fast and hard as he could. It had barely staggered.

Weapon, Cade decided. I need a weapon.

Nothing nearby would work. The creature was too durable for small-arms fire. Anything he could tear from the walls wouldn’t be any better.

It came to him, and he wondered why it took him so long.

The creature was a few feet away. Cade braced himself for the blow. The creature flung out one of its fists, aiming for the annoying thing that wouldn’t break as easily as the others.

Cade caught the arm, turned and twisted it, in a move that looked like judo. Only instead of flipping the creature, the move tore the arm free at the shoulder, ripping out the joint.

The creature stopped. Cade wondered if they felt pain.

If so, then this was going to hurt. A lot.

He swung the arm like a baseball bat. Infused with whatever miracle potion Konrad had made, it was just as strong as the creature.

It cracked across the Unmenschsoldat’s skull, twisting it at an unnatural angle.

Unable to see straight, it began to walk in a small circle.

Cade swung again. And again. And again. And again.

Through it all, the men in the Oval Office remained quiet.

The young agent—Terrill, Griff reminded himself, the kid’s name was Terrill—stood, panicked, by the president. As if he could shield Curtis with his body alone.

Curtis sat in his chair, lost in thought. Ostensibly the most powerful man in the world, he could do nothing to save himself or his family.

Wyman sat in one of the couches, muttering to himself, shaking violently. Griff wondered if he was having a seizure. He walked over to the vice president.

A few steps closer, he could hear what Wyman was saying, over and over.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen yet . . . This wasn’t supposed to happen yet . . . I was supposed to know . . . It wasn’t supposed to start . . .”

Wyman looked up and stopped babbling. A new kind of fear came into his face when he saw Griff.

“What was that?” Griff said quietly.

Wyman gulped. An expression crossed his face that Griff had previously only seen in cartoons.

“I—I just—things like this can’t happen,” he said. “That’s what I meant. It’s not possible.”

There was the sound of more gunfire from somewhere else in the White House. They all looked up in response. Closer to the Residence. Curtis looked at the window, as if he could see through the metal shields by force of will.

Griff looked back at Wyman, who had, by some great physical effort, gotten himself under control. Griff knew this wasn’t the time.

He put a finger in Wyman’s face. “Later,” he said, “you and I are going to talk.”

A little of Wyman’s old arrogance seeped back. “That’s presuming there is a later, Agent Griffin.”

Griff walked back to the door. Man had a point.