Jackson stood blinking in the near-darkness, trying to make sense of the visual information, when a voice thundered at him, punching him like a haymaker in the gut—
DROP! it bellowed.
Sister Mae’s voice.
Right in his ear.
Jackson dropped.
Without thinking, just crashed to the deck.
As he went down he felt a sharp sting in his upper back, something stabbing into the meat of his trapezium.
He spun and lashed out with one foot, connecting with his attacker’s legs. The man fell to the floor but twisted away like a swamp eel, Jackson’s roundhouse hitting nothing but air.
He felt something slash through his jacket across his back.
He struck out with a backhand but hit—nothing—and, then…he…
felt himself going into
slow motion
as if he
were drunk
and thought
Craaappppp…
That hypo cap.
The sting in his shoulder—a hypodermic. Slowing him down.
The red safety lights snapped on.
Lying on his back now, Jackson got a glimpse of his assailant.
In the unreal crimson glow, the face looked like a Halloween mask.
Jackson thought his brain would go POP! like the lights.
Lew?
The mask leered, the figure lunged forward.
Jackson felt the scalpel being thrust into him, just under the rib cage.