Smoothly, the lock-light slid into its tube. The grav-car's door swung open. One agent got in. A second stood aside, waiting for me and the men who held me.
Together, we stepped forward. Then I bent to enter the grav-car, and all let go of me momentarily.
There was just one man to my left, now. One man between me and the corner.
I bent still lower—and then, without warning, drove my shoulder hard into that man's midriff, bowling him aside as I raced madly towards the intersection.
But instantly, behind me, yells rose in wild chorus. Feet pounded pavement. Hands clutched for me.
Something was happening to my knees, too, and my lungs. They wouldn't work the way I needed for this kind of running. The fatigue of my earlier bouts was telling on them.
A last gasp; a last lunge. I spilled to the street.
The yells turned to hoarse, baying triumph.
It was the end of something, and the beginning of something.
The end of mankind, perhaps? The beginning of a ruthless Kel march to victory?