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THE SCENE WAS ETCHED into Amos’s memory—seared, like a branding iron. His dreams summoned the emotions and chaos in stark and vivid detail. He felt helpless, as if he’d been seized in the ruthless grip of a tornado, whirling about in its vortex.
The tornado deposited him in the deserted mechanical shop, one night earlier. Twin lanterns held the darkness inside the austere shop at bay, benign spotlights illuminating the preposterous meeting between Hoarders and Runners.
The vortex spun him past the gathering, orchestrated by the enigmatic Mateo, in his attempt to forge an alliance between the wary and suspicious groups.
The images swirled, at one moment racing past in a dizzying blur, and then slowing to a crawl, as if to focus in excruciating detail on some particular element.
There was no need for his dream to fabricate additional nuances of horror. The unadorned memory was terrifying all on its own.
Amos recalled the sinking feeling in his gut when he first laid eyes on the waiting Hoarders. None of them were armed, but the menace emanating from the trio was so thick he could almost smell it.
In particular, the one in the middle. Their leader, Darcy.
Amos’s viewpoint shifted, allowing him to observe the rag-tag group of Runners flanking him. He read the loathing and revulsion on Aubrey’s face as she confronted her worst nightmare—the Hoarder who created the Implants.
His dream perspective whirled again, and he was facing the Hoarders once more, standing shoulder to shoulder with his companions. Once again, he was experiencing fury and helplessness as Darcy mocked and taunted them.
In slow motion, he saw Aubrey lunge forward. She raised the gun she’d smuggled into the meeting, intent on killing Darcy. The weapon became the focal point of his dream, the metallic gray reflecting the dancing beams of the lanterns.
He watched in fascination as Aubrey’s finger tightened on the trigger, the final sequence which would wreak vengeance on the smirking monster called Darcy.
Do it. His unvoiced plea reverberated in his thoughts, echoing Jane’s verbal challenge. In vivid detail, he watched the muscles in Aubrey’s hand shift as she prepared to fire.