Dressed in Ionada’s wet border control uniform, Damien stepped through the evacuating personnel in the corridor and entered the evidence room. He had to admit it felt good to be armed again, even if he was soaked. He carried a stun gun, an unconcealed pistol—standard issue Heckler & Koch P2000—and a strong urge to get out of here as soon as possible.

The evidence room was vacant, but the evidence bag containing his phone and earbuds was still on the table. He fished out the phone, keyed in his passcode, and dialed.

The first thing he heard was Nasira, swearing. Judging by the background noise, she was driving too.

‘Good to hear your voice,’ Damien said.

She sighed. ‘I take it you’re not on the bus I’m following right now.’

‘No, but I dropped my tracking device before they yanked me off the bus,’ Damien said. ‘Which I guess is why you think I’m still on the bus. That’s a good thing, right?’

‘You’re in the middle of the goddamn border control station, ain’t you?’ Nasira said.

‘I wouldn’t say the middle of the station,’ Damien said. ‘Maybe the south-west corner.’

Nasira sighed again. ‘Well, shit.’

He heard her make a fast turn, wheels screeching.

‘I might need your help.’ Damien said. ‘Getting out of here could be tricky.’

‘Understatement of the century,’ she said. ‘Can you get to the south entrance? Near vehicle inspection?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘You better do more than try, I’m already rescuing one stupid son of a bitch,’ she said. ‘Ain’t gonna make that two.’

‘I’m keeping you on the line,’ Damien said.

‘So I can hear your ass get shot?’ Nasira said. ‘Yeah, I look forward to it.’

He took his earbuds from the evidence bag and popped one in each ear, then threaded the cable under his wet shirt. It was already beginning to dry. The upside to having thermogenic genes—otherwise dormant in most humans—was the high body core temperature. Most viruses burned out before they could make him sick, and he rarely felt cold. Plus, he could quick-dry a uniform in less than a minute. Damien slipped the phone into his hip pocket and checked the corridor before stepping out. It was mostly clear. He passed the other interview rooms and holstered his pistol. He matched a passing officer’s stride and received a strange glance. His uniform was mostly dry, but his hair was still wet.

He made it to the south entrance as quickly as possible. Through the front vestibule, he could see a row of patrol cars parked out front. He could steal one and drive it out of the station to Nasira. Or he could if heavily armed officers weren’t walking through the vestibule in jungle camouflage.

‘This could be tricky,’ Damien said.

‘Almost there,’ Nasira said through gritted teeth. ‘Keep ’em busy.’

Four officers: two with long-nosed M4 carbines, one with an angular UMP submachine gun and another with a sleek black Remington shotgun. Ionada’s backup had arrived, and they were already raising their weapons. The only advantage Damien had was that he was still hugging the wall on the side and they were focused ahead. These officers weren’t like Ionada, they were special-operations trained and wouldn’t be as easily subdued.

Damien reached for a fire extinguisher on the wall beside him and pulled the pin. The nearest officer turned and saw him. Damien squeezed the fire extinguisher’s handle and doused him in a thick cloud that obscured all four officers. It effectively blinded them, but wouldn’t last long. Damien lifted the fire extinguisher from the wall and moved into the cloud, swinging it like a club. The extinguisher caught the shotgun officer in the stomach and cracked his ribs. The shotgun dropped to the floor and Damien kicked it away. A carbine-wielding officer slipped on it. Damien closed on that officer and slammed the extinguisher down onto the carbine, then sprayed carbon dioxide into his face, coating his goggles and freezing his lips. He dropped.

Two down, two to go.

The cloud dispersed quickly. The officer wielding the UMP retreated for a better shot. Damien hurled the empty extinguisher at the UMP officer. It struck him, but not heavily enough to knock him over.

Damien closed on the other carbine officer and grasped the rail of his weapon. He lifted the stock up, catching the officer in the chin. Using the carbine’s sling, Damien pulled him forward by his neck, right into Damien’s knee. The officer stumbled and rolled across the linoleum floor.

That left the UMP officer. He was out of reach, somewhere in the fading cloud of carbon dioxide. Damien had nothing but a holstered pistol and stun gun. That lingering officer poked his barrel through the cloud. Damien drew his stun gun and fired. The electrode darts hit the officer and punctured both sides of his nose. He collapsed, writhing and jittering.

The UMP officer was standing nearby so Damien moved quickly around him. The conductive wires wrapped around the officer’s legs and sent him tumbling onto his face. Damien discarded the stun gun and reached for the—

‘Don’t move!’

At the edge of his vision, Damien noticed a new group of special forces officers training their weapons on him. He had nowhere to run and nothing to use. The UMP submachine gun lay promisingly close but still too far.