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Reluctantly, you let your gun slip to the ground as the muzzle of a rifle emerges from the darkened doorway.
‘You too, honey,’ says the disembodied voice, and Kate obeys, tossing her machine pistol out of the car so that it lands deliberately near your feet.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ says another voice, away to your right.
From behind a wrecked auto steps a tall, muscular man, dressed in green army fatigues. His blond hair is cropped close to his head and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Pistol in hand, he walks slowly towards you, and then stops at the entrance to the pay booth. Two more men in uniform emerge from the doorway—the rifleman and one other who is armed with a sawn-off shotgun.
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‘They don’t look like clan punks, Sarge,’ says the rifleman.
‘We’re not,’ interrupts Kate. ‘We’re running from the clans.’
Bemused, the blond-haired man scratches his chin and turns to say something quietly to his two companions. It is then that you notice the faded sergeant stripes and the circular globe-of-the-world emblem that adorn his sleeve. Instantly you recognize the latter: it is the emblem of the World Defence League. At length, he turns to face you once more and says, in a friendlier tone, ‘I think you two had better tell us your story.’
