CHAPTER 13
All along the lawn, soldiers exploded out from behind columns and trees, charging after Bruce.
Bruce sped into a sprint, weaving, desperate to outdistance the soldiers.
Hearing engines behind her, Betty spun around and gasped at the two huge vehicles roaring down the quad’s perimeter. They smashed parked cars, splitting up and racing on either side of her—one bumping up on the grass, the other zooming down the road. One had a .50-caliber machine gun on its roof. Students scattered and got out their phones to take pictures of the chaotic scene.
Betty chased after the vehicles, trying to keep Bruce in sight.
He dashed off ahead of her, taking a hard turn down a columned walkway. The buildings opened up beyond a courtyard, into a field, and he bolted past that exit. Past the field, Bruce knew, was a large patch of forest.
On the monitors in their black van, General Ross and Major Sparr watched Bruce run. “Dammit, we’d have had snipers on target in three more minutes,” Ross growled, furious that his trap had been sprung too soon. “I want to know who jumped the gun.” He’d be handing down some discipline when this mission was completed.
Bruce whipped through a small grove of trees and reached the field, accelerating across the open ground. Along the edges of the field were the outer buildings of the campus—like the back of the library facility, which was connected to a performing arts center by a glassed-in overpass. Ahead of Bruce was a huge steel modern art sculpture.
Bruce veered slightly when vehicles appeared on the far edge of the performing arts center. From his new angle, he could see them motoring toward him from behind, followed by a group of soldiers on foot. He focused on the line of forest across the field—his only hope of escape.
Emil Blonsky outpaced the others like they were standing still, sprinting at an inhuman speed that brought him right up level with the automobiles as Bruce tore around the corner of the arts center and hurtled across a stone terrace. He sped toward the back doors of the library, burst inside, and raced down a narrow aisle between tall bookshelves.
Blonsky held up a clenched fist to stop the other soldiers from entering. “Look alive,” he said. “This could get interesting.”
His squad surrounded the building, and designated soldiers pursued Bruce inside.
When Betty neared the library, she stopped, taking in the swarm of soldiers around the building, with more pouring out of mobile transports and taking positions around the metal sculpture. Another team was sprinting from the forest. Far to the right were vehicles holding strange, bulky equipment. She spotted a black command van slowing near the transport and hustled toward it.
Inside the library, Bruce jumped up a narrow staircase and raced down another aisle, dropping to his knees between two shelves. He yanked the data flash card out of his pocket and removed its lanyard. Soldiers’ footsteps clattered nearby, climbing the stairs toward him.
Bruce opened his mouth and shoved the data card down his throat. He forced himself to swallow it, coughing and gagging. There was no way he was going to lose the data again. No way. As soon as it was down, Bruce peeked out from behind a shelf, just as a soldier looked his way. The soldier yelled, and Bruce darted down the aisle.
Betty cut off the lead armored vehicle in a second group. She knew that’s where the officers would be. “Stop! Stop!” she yelled, standing right in front of it. “I know you’re in there! General, please!”
“Dad!” Betty screamed.
The van door opened, and her father stepped out. General Ross faced her impatiently, glancing over at the buildings. Two rangers guarded him from behind with their rifles.
“Please don’t do this,” Betty begged. “He needs help!”
“You can’t see this clearly,” Ross snapped at her. “Now get inside.” He reached out to grab her arm, but she pulled away.
Bruce burst through the double doors of the overpass and into the glass-enclosed tube, running toward the performing arts center.
“There he is!” one of Ross’s rangers shouted.
Everybody on the field watched Bruce bolting through the overpass. Above the buildings, ominous thunderclouds gathered, turning the sky a deep gray. A voice over a radio squawked, “Target is in the overpass. We have a visual.”
“Do not engage,” General Ross said into a walkie-talkie. “Repeat: Do not engage!”
When the commandos appeared on the side of the performing arts building, Bruce stopped short and spun around to run back to the library. But soldiers were waiting for him there, too. He stood in the middle of the overpass, trapped, his chest heaving, as he pondered his next move.
Ross tightened his hands to fists. “Put two canisters in there with him,” he ordered. “One on either side.”
The soldiers cornering Bruce quickly backed out and bolted the doors. Bruce stared at them in momentary confusion, but then he saw two missiles heading for the walkway. He ducked as small canisters broke through the glass. They clanked on the ceiling, clattered onto the floor, and then issued out clouds of thick smoke.
Bruce ripped off his shirt, then took a deep gasp of air and balled up the shirt over his nose and mouth.
“Bruce!” Betty screamed as she saw the tube fill with smoke. She broke away from her father and dashed toward the overpass.
“Get her back here!” Ross shouted, and his rangers scrambled after her.
Bruce’s pulse raced, and he flailed around as he tried to stay in pockets of clean air. He pushed up against the glass, and his eyes widened when he saw a soldier reach Betty and grab her arm. She elbowed him and broke free. Bruce cried out as the other ranger tackled her to the ground.
Bruce dropped his shirt and pressed himself flat against the wall. Burning rage sizzled through his body, and his eyes flashed green. His chest heaved and contorted, his torso twisting as he tumbled back into the smoke.
Betty screamed as the smoke lit up with a flare of brilliant green.
In the van, all the radiation monitors spiked.
“The Geiger counter’s lighting up!” Sparr yelled.
Ross didn’t take his eyes off the smoke-filled overpass.
Neither did Emil Blonsky. His real target was about to arrive.