"I'll use the stun-dusters," she said to Mnemosyne.

"You're crazy. Why?"

Sam couldn't say why. She wasn't totally sure herself. "Trust me. Please?"

Mnemosyne left a moment of silence to convey doubt. Then she said, "All right. Go on." She firmed her grip on the coilgun. "But I'm keeping this trained on it at all times."

"Cronus gave us nonlethal offensive capability for a reason," Sam said, fitting a pair of ridged metal knuckledusters onto her gauntlets.

"Let's hope the reason wasn't to kill ourselves," Mnemosyne replied.

Sam grunted. Already, a little over a month after the commencement of operations, two Titans were dead. Today at least one more could be about to join them, and this time it would be their own fault. Her fault, in fact.

Abruptly, the Minotaur charged.

Sam braced herself. Mnemosyne, meanwhile, stepped back and took aim.

Hyperion was yelling, "Don't be stupid. Kill-shot! Motherfucking kill-shot!"

The beast came fast — so fast — barrelling at them like a runaway goods van.

Sam knew that if she fucked this up, it was all over.

Then don't fuck it up, she told herself, and ran to meet the monster.

1. THE CHICAGOAN

There were two of them waiting on the quay: Sam and the man she had first encountered a couple of hours ago on the train, the man who'd been carrying an invitation like hers. She had spotted him in the buffet car as she was returning to her carriage from a trip to the toilet. He was ordering a cheese sandwich and a "club soda." African-American. Tall. Well put together. Nice, firm buttocks. Standing straight-spined, so much so that everyone around him seemed to slouch by comparison. Chicago accent? Yes, Chicago. Chewy on the syllables.