He ran to the telephone. The line was dead. It was time to evacuate. To hell with his breakthrough notes. He ran to the window. He was searching for something to use to break the sealed window when the locked door broke inward from a single blow that shattered the jamb. In the doorway stood a person — Von Stradt was not sure of the sex — a person that made his blood run cold. Long black hair was pulled into a ponytail that was doubled back on itself and bound with a rag. The face could have belonged to a prizefighter who had stayed in the ring a few too many years. The shoulders were broad and heavy. The body was covered by a gray mechanic's coverall, on the feet were joggers. The eyes were calm and deadly, the smile not at all warming.

"Thinking of going somewhere?" the person asked. The voice was flat, hoarse. It gave no clue to the sex of the speaker.

Von Stradt found no answer. He stood mutely while the thing glided in and turned on both his personal computer and his terminal to the company mainframe.

"Access codes?" it demanded.

"Uhhh," he stalled, wondering when someone was going to come and wake him from this nightmare.

"An old man down the hall tried to stall me and I poked an eye out," the hoarse voice said.

"Shit," he told the approaching demon.

Two knobby fists hit him on each side of the chest. Ryan fought to take a breath and his body exploded with pain. His knees buckled. He could not breathe, because each breath felt like he was cutting his chest with hot knives.

"Both lungs are pierced by broken ribs," the hoarse voice told him. "You'd better lie on your back and breathe with your diaphragm or you'll never last until help gets here."

He did as he was told. It helped some, but not much. "Get an ambulance," he croaked. Then he coughed and tasted the saltiness of blood.