As a blast of broken glass peppered her face shield, Ellen admitted to herself that pride had brought her to this point. Pride, and faulty intelligence.

Recon reported this as a lightly fortified, two-level sub-lab, so the first wave of resistance hadn't been a surprise, nor the second. But as her squad advanced Ellen noticed they weren't passing enough fallen bodies, so she suspected a third sub-level existed. Onward and downward they pushed, trading heavy fire in narrow corridors. Two of her eight-man infiltration team had already sustained serious casualties, one she expected to bleed out. A more prudent course would have been to retreat and put the facility under lock down for the remainder of the night, sending two guards back for reinforcements. Instead, sensing that they had them on the ropes, she ordered them to push forward. When they found an entrance to a fourth sub-level in the floor, Ellen knew it wasn't her day.

Then the entire level burst into flame.

Ellen swore as she watched the lab equipment engulfed by the fireballs—all that priceless intel wasted. The overhead sprinklers activated, probably saving their lives but the water would ruin whatever the fire had not. Smoke flooded the room. Another wave of explosions showered them with glass. Ellen was relieved to find her remaining six troops behind cover, each signaling they were unhurt. Had the lab's defensive measures been intended to kill rather than destroy evidence, she and her crew would be dead. Thank God for small favors, Ellen thought.

Decision time: either they limped topside and abandon the operation, or they pushed on and try to salvage this miserable night. She made up her mind quickly. It wasn't about glory anymore. That ship had sailed. Now she harbored a serious grudge. She motioned for the guards to advance in teams of three. One way or another, this game of Russian roulette was about to end and, regardless of the outcome, Ellen was resolved not to blink.

The needed C4 to crack the door to what Ellen prayed was the the final level. After the explosion, they pried back the ruined hatch and took one last breath.

"Abandon hope all ye who enter, huh?" she said to the man next to her. Behind his shield she caught his confused look and remembered that picking up allusions to medieval epic poetry wasn't in his job description. Hell, half the rank-and-file could hardly read.

She tossed a pair of concussion grenades down the hole. After the second exploded they heard a high pitched crying, ended by a single pistol report. "This is Commander Ellen Johnson of the MPD," she shouted into the void. "Drop your weapons and surrender."

Hearing nothing, they descended into darkness. Emergency lights flickered dimly in the far corners of a single room lined with shelves holding cardboard boxes and packaged foods. A pair of wooden tables were turned over, flanking a heavy metal door. "Put your hands up," she shouted again and gave two seconds for a reply. Then she directed the guardsmen to spray the tables with gunfire as she lobbed two more grenades, her last, into the space behind them. The explosions deafened them for a moment, followed by absolute silence.

They crept forward, guns leveled at the bullet-riddled tables. Behind them three men and a woman lay over each other in a jumble of limbs, none moving. Delia glimpsed at the grim faces of her crew behind their shields. No data, no captives. A complete bust. With one last shake of the dice, she pounded on the door with her fist. The gonging reverberated in the small room.

"You have twenty seconds to open this door," Ellen shouted. She motioned for the demolition expert to plant the charge. She closed her eyes, counting off the seconds, then gave a curt nod. They took cover and the door blasted inward, rebounding on its hinges. Single shots from a handgun rang out and Ellen sprayed the empty doorway with her rifle. They heard a strangled cry and then a crash.

The guardsmen converged on the door, darting heads in and out and then ducking inside. "Clear!" one called. "Two in here, though one's not long for this world."

Ellen raised her weapon and strode into the small room, ten-by-ten square. A single computer rested on its side on a desk, wires and cord dangling from it like guts. The room was empty except for a few stacked boxes of tools and hardware. Lying against the wall grimacing was a middle-aged man in a white lab coat, now splattered red. On the floor next to him lay an ancient-looking revolver. He was gasping for breath, drooling blood into his scrubby brown beard.

Ellen crouched by him. "Anybody else here?" He clenched his fists and shook his head every so slightly, his face a knot of pain.

It didn't have to be this way, Ellen thought. She blamed her father for authorizing this fool mission, she blamed these idiotic scientists for not surrendering, she blamed herself stubbornness for forcing them to keep pushing through. "What is this place? What were you working on?" But the scientist said nothing as his head lopped on his chest.

"Commander," a guardsmen said and motioned with the barrel of his rifle to a woman squatting in the corner, trembling and shielding her face. A quick scan suggested she was unhurt. Ellen placed her rifle on the table and went to her. "Easy," she said gently as pulled the woman's hand from her face. "We're not going to hurt you. What's your name?"

The woman was stunning beautiful, her thin and blemishless face framed by flowing blond hair. She blinked her long lashes and said in a tentative voice, "I'm Delia Reichman."