Merritt stopped preparing himself. "Well, I see you were expecting trouble."

Ross was still moving back and forth, trying to pinpoint the intruder's location on a printed floor plan. "He's one of the gamers along the back wall of the pit. User 23, 24, or 25."

Philips turned to the scientists. "This intruder must be linked into the Daemon's darknet. Can you jam his connection?"

The lead scientist looked dour. "We're not configured to jam signals in the gaming pit, Doctor."

"Major, we need that mole taken alive if at all possible."

The Major nodded toward the distant blast doors. "Let's get to the security control room. We'll direct the op from there."

Chapter 43:// Enemy Within

T he glass security doors of the gaming pit opened silently, admitting a Korr strike team-half a dozen heavily armed men wearing Kevlar helmets, gas masks, and black body armor. They entered in close formation, single file, guns aimed over each other's shoulders. The white Korr logo was a just a large stylistic "K," like a heraldic symbol on their black helmets and breastplates.

Across the room another set of glass doors opened, revealing a second Korr strike team, identical to the first. The team leaders exchanged hand signals, then advanced in unison. They were a steely-eyed, professional bunch, with automatic weapons, Tasers, and beanbag guns at the ready. They moved as one, threading rapidly through the tangle of workstations toward their target. They clearly knew their business.

The strike teams fanned out, aiming toward the far corner of the room. As they moved in, several of them held up printed signs reading Danger: Do not speak. Leave immediately.White-hat gamers looked up one by one, nudging each other. Their game chatter died down, but the guards took up chatter of their own to compensate:

"Team two, cover that left flank."

"Stop bunching up."

"Cover that exit!"

"Clear the field of fire."

The strike teams kept up a steady stream of talk as they formed into a wedge, focused directly on the target: the three gamers in the corner of the room. They could see the gamers' heads dodging left and right beyond flat-panel monitors, reacting to what was displayed on their computer screens. All three men were completely absorbed in their games.

The forward team leader held up three gloved fingers and pointed directly at the players in the corner. Best to take all three down.

The strike teams were still tugging stunned gamers aside, holding a finger up for silence, then pointing to the exits.

Finally the two strike teams were in position, arrayed around their quarry at a distance of ten or twelve feet. They stared at the heads of three gamers-patches of close-cropped, spiky hair. The ambient chatter had died down now, and the targeted gamers appeared to sense something was up. They glanced around as the last of their neighbors scurried to safety. They were isolated. Silence finally fell upon the room, except for the stereo sound effects of nearby 3-D games.

One of the Korr team leaders touched a microphone switch on his gas mask and shouted in an amplified radio voice. "Users 23, 24, and 25. Remain seated, and put your hands where we can see them. This is not a drill!"

The two gamers on the left immediately raised their hands and looked up in utter shock. When they got a look at the dozen weapons pointed in their direction, they turned a shade paler than they already were.

The young guy on the right remained motionless, still sitting behind his monitor.

"User 25! Put your hands where we can see them! Now!" The team leader motioned for the two users on the left to clear the area. They were happy to oblige, and as they complied, two guards pepper-sprayed them in the face. They collapsed screaming as the guards zipped hand ties onto their wrists. It was done with expert swiftness and precision-like calf roping in a rodeo-and in no time, the guards were back on their feet, weapons ready.

User 25 was now isolated. A couple dozen eyes memorized the top of his head through gun sights. Bright laser dots clustered on his scalp.

The booming radio voice kept up the pressure. "Show your hands! Now!"

User 25 took a deep breath. "This is a mistake."

"Hands where we can see them or we open fire!"

"A big mistake."

"I said hands in the air!"

User 25 finally raised his hands. They were wrapped in jet-black gloves with silver caps-like thimbles-on the end of each index finger. Something was set in the palm of each hand, like a large crystal.

Suddenly a white-hot flash several times brighter than the sun pulsed through the room, followed closely by a second flash from User 25's other hand. It took several moments for the light to flare down.

The strike teams were initially stunned, but then needles of agony burned into their brains. They dropped their weapons as they collapsed onto their knees, grabbing at their eyes and clawing their gas masks off their faces, screaming.

Brian Gragg kicked his chair away and stood up from the gaming workstation. As the blinded strike team members writhed on the floor, crying out, Gragg moved calmly toward the burly team leader who had shouted at him. Gragg aimed a silver-capped index finger at the man-a lens at its very tip. Black fiber optic and electrical cables ran down the back of Gragg's hand like veins, disappearing beneath his shirt. "The name is Loki, asshole."

A ruler- straight bolt of electricity cracked like a bullwhip from his fingertip into the man's body armor, followed by a flickering series of bolts in quick succession-three a second. The team leader's muscles jerked with each thunderclap. The smell of ozone filled the air.

After the last crack, Gragg lowered his hand, and the team leader dropped to the ground dead, his body smoking and sizzling.

Grimacing from the pain in his eyes, the other team leader glanced around blindly and shouted, "Who's shooting!"

"That's not shooting!"

"Hooks!" A pause. "Where's Hooks!"

"Get to cover and sound off! Sound off!"

Gragg moved toward the fallen men. He pointed and let loose with several seconds of deafening thunderclaps. Men crawled away screaming, only to be immobilized the moment the first bolt hit them.

In a few seconds they were all motionless or convulsing.

The sickening smell of burnt hair came to Gragg's nostrils.

"What the hell just happened?" Philips stared at a bank of security monitors. The security command center was packed with Korr Security folks pointing at monitors and barking into radios.

The Major snapped his fingers at the control board operator. "Get on the horn to Weyburn Labs. Tell them we might be facing an illicit LIP-C weapon. I need countermeasures and tactics."

Merritt watched the intruder on the monitor. "What's an LIP-C weapon?"

"Laser- Induced Plasma Channel. Uses laser light as a virtual wire for electricity."

"Where did he get it?"

"The Daemon appears to be dipping into our research pipeline."

Philips turned on him. "Just how many sections of the intelligence apparatus have been compromised, Major?"

"Not now, Doctor. We've got men down."

Ross, Merritt, and Philips stared at the large central monitor. There, the intruder was stepping among the fallen strike team members, sprawled on the floor of the gaming pit.

The Major barked at the board operator. "Seal zones three through six. Let's contain this asshole."

Another Korr officer spoke up. "I've got an identity on User 25: Michael Radcliffe. Grad student, MIT-"

The Major waved it aside. "That's bullshit. Radcliffe's probably dead."

"Should we pump tear gas through the ventilation ducts, sir?"

"Use your brain. There's a dozen gas masks in there with him." The Major checked his watch. "Call in an electronic warfare team and a demolitions team. We need to jam this fucker's uplink, then kill him." He turned to nearby Korr officers. "I want commercially marked choppers over our twenty. Scramble the perimeter defense teams. Lethal force authorized. No one enters or leaves this facility until I say otherwise."