Carla Johnston Enters the Arena

It was a long day at work. The endless corridor under Cott Arena seems to get further from the parking garage every day. And so far, the undercover mission has yielded nothing. My superiors at the FBI are going to pull the plug any day. While my employee badge says Janice Snow, my real name is Carla Johnston. I'm an FBI special agent.

How did a rookie fresh from the academy get assigned to this op? I look young. Nobody in the Cott cartel suspects that the high school girl running the concession stand is with the FBI.

A sudden noise makes me stop in my tracks: a woman's scream echoes down the hallway. I dump my backpack and grab my Beretta from the hidden pocket. I chamber a round and clip the tactical headset to my ear. With gun low and ready, I advance up the hall.

Focus, deep breaths. Pick your target. Remember your training. I reach a door with light under it. My heart starts to race. No time to call anyone, this one is all you.

But as I reach for the knob, a figure bolts from the darkness. In an instant I'm face to face with a giant. He goes to tackle me, but I twist free and fire twice, hitting him once, but he doesn't go down. He slams me to the wall as I pull the trigger twice more but hits the barrel before I can line up a third shot. Two more point blank to the chest. He keeps coming. He connects with a left, but I pivot right and land a roundhouse kick to his head. He doesn't even blink.

I break free and run, hitting the panic button on the radio and reloading a magazine. But he's faster. I pivot to fire but he tackles me. The gun falls from my hand.

A bee sting burns my neck where the needle goes in. My knees give out as I go for the gun, but it's out of reach. It's too late, I'm finished.

He withdraws the syringe and smiles, revealing a mouthful of broken teeth.

Everything fades to black.