On his feet, feeling the pain in his eye and the new pain in his back, but defiant and with a growing rage inside him, Justin spread his arms, threw back his head, and roared, “You cannot stop me! I. Am. Knightmare!”
Erin was there, yelling, and as the ringing in his ears quieted he began to hear, “It’s the girl from Iowa! It’s the girl from Iowa!” and the penny dropped as Justin realized what she was saying, and who he had just faced down in battle. The speed demon was the girl from the field in Iowa. The girl who now apparently had acquired super-speed and a desire to meddle in the affairs of Knightmare.
You’re the villain. I’m the hero.
Justin pushed away the pain in his eye, or told himself to at least—the pain was terrible and absolutely impossible to ignore. Her name, that unusual name, came to him and he bellowed, “Come and get me, Shade Darby! Come and fight Knightmare!”
I’m not the villain, I’m the artist!
But the speed demon and her friends had hopped into a CHP car, slammed into reverse, and were racing at speed for the main road as more vehicles with flashing lights closed in from north and south. The F-16 circled to come around for another attack. And now, flying low over the water, came two Apache attack helicopters.
For a moment Justin wanted to cry.
It’s not fair!
Erin was just beside him, pleading with him to run, run, run!
But he was weary. And though he was fast, he was not the girl from the Iowa cornfield, and he could not hope to outrun the missiles he saw already arcing with deadly grace toward him.
“Sorry,” he said to Erin.
She seemed puzzled. Her eyes widened. And there were three massive explosions.
Justin regained consciousness as Justin, no longer Knightmare.
He could tell that he was in the back of a tractor trailer—the dimensions of the long rectangle were the dimensions of every trailer on the highway, and he felt the vibrations of wheels on tarmac, heard the diesel engine and the sound of wind.
He was on his back, naked, on a stainless-steel table. Titanium bands two inches thick clasped his neck, elbows, waist, thighs, and ankles. And there were heavy cement blocks encasing his hands.
No!
Four people in Army uniforms and maroon berets had four automatic assault rifles aimed at him.
A middle-aged woman in an impeccable, razor-creased uniform stood watching with avid eyes. The uniform was adorned with small blue and gold rectangles framing a single brass star on the shoulders.
“You would be Justin DeVeere,” the general said. “I am General DiMarco. Your girlfriend is vapor, thanks to you.”
“Erin?” he moaned.
“Let’s get this straight right from the start, you little psycho: each and every time you address me, you will do so as ‘General’ or ‘Ma’am.’” She leaned down close, close enough for him to notice a twitch in her right eye.
“Is she . . . did . . . Is she dead?”
The general smiled, showing too many small white teeth. Then she grabbed his nose between thumb and forefinger and twisted it viciously. He cried out and she twisted again, wringing a louder cry of pain from him.
“What did I just tell you?”
“I just . . . Is she dead. General?”
“Deader ’n hell, private, deader ’n hell. You are all alone in the world, Private DeVeere, all alone in the great cruel world.”
“Why do you keep calling me ‘Private’? General Ma’am?”
DiMarco patted him on the side of his face. “Well, son, it’s like this: although we don’t use it, we do still have the draft on the books. So you, you sick piece of shit, are now a private in the US Army.”
“What? I mean, what, General?”
“Very good: you learn. I like ’em bright, easier to train that way.”