The F-16 circled to come around for another attack. And now, flying low over the water, came two Apache attack helicopters.

For a moment Justin wanted to cry.

It’s not fair!

Erin was just beside him, pleading with him to run, run, run!

But he was weary. And though he was fast, he was not the girl from the Iowa cornfield, and he could not hope to outrun the missiles he saw already arcing with deadly grace toward him.

“Sorry,” he said to Erin.

She seemed puzzled. Her eyes widened. And there were three massive explosions.

Justin regained consciousness as Justin, no longer Knightmare.

He could tell that he was in the back of a tractor trailer—the dimensions of the long rectangle were the dimensions of every trailer on the highway, and he felt the vibrations of wheels on tarmac, heard the diesel engine and the sound of wind.

He was on his back, naked, on a stainless-steel table. Titanium bands two inches thick clasped his neck, elbows, waist, thighs, and ankles. And there were heavy cement blocks encasing his hands.

Monster, Chapter 17