Much like how we arrived at the subway, we exited into the area where they stored the out of use underground airport trains. We got into the one, and it took us down the side tracks and in the wrong direction until we stopped at the terminal where Mr. Smith told me to go to gate C18. I had a seat in coach under the name Robert Paul Gibson. I cleared through security fifteen minutes ago, at least as far as the airport was concerned. When I got off the train, a woman handed me a backpack and a carryon suitcase.“Everything you require is in the backpack. Have a nice flight, Mr. Gibson,” she said before stepping onto the train.While sitting at the gate, I heard my name called out in the local language, Chinese, Spanish, French, German, Russia, and finally English. At the counter, the woman was doing her best to speak to me in English. I saved her the trouble and talked to her in the local language, which surprised her.“Please forgive my disrespect,” she said. “Your destination is the. " Despite the blinding hood, in her mind was a clear picture of Liz Fisherrising, picking herself up from the floor and clutching at her stomach. Thenshe felt the bed sag as someone sat next to her. But even now her ears werestarting to ring and she wanted to breathe and she tried to but her windpipewas too restricted. A while ago, a long, long time ago or so it seemed, she would have been scared.She tried to suck in air once more and nothing happened. Her arms and legswere moving but not of her own volition. She could feel the rush. Helplessand powerless, almost totally under someone else's control. She could hearsounds; one moment they were very, very, close and then suddenly far, far,away Involuntarily, she tried to breathe again but still nothing happened. Herchest seemed to be on fire. Her toes and fingers throbbed. She could feel everypart of her body. The aches, the pains, the bruises and the burns, the puncturesand the wheals. And then she could feel nothing. Nothing apart.
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