The Golden Shield of IBF Read Online Free PDF

automatics.
    Garrison started out of the van. Sutton waved him a thumbs up.
    Criswell said, “You can do it, Alan. Be careful, huh.”
    Wisnewski shook Garrison’s hand, then looked away.
    The handshake thing from Wisnewski was spooky in the extreme...

    Bill Brownwood’s convention badge read, “Tim Castor,” a one-day pass with a name to match one of his fake driver’s licenses. Even though it wasn’t declared as such, the FBI would be handling this as a hostage situation. He was inside, with enough explosives in his backpack to bring down half a high-rise; the law was outside, with bomb disposal equipment, snipers, SWAT Teams and enough manpower to lay siege to the gold depository at Fort Knox. Brownwood found himself grinning. The New World Order would have given the secret orders that Bill Brownwood should not be taken alive, but be terminated with extreme prejudice while resisting arrest.
    He knew how the FBI and all the rest of the idiot United Nations stooge agencies worked. Manpower saturation rather than subtlety. They were waiting for him to grab a room full of hostages and make some demands. “Yo, Feds! I want pizzas up here now! And a million dollars and a helicopter and a police radio, or I see how big a crater ten pounds of homemade plastic explosives can make where this fuckin’ building used to be! And no damn anchovies!”
    The Feds couldn’t understand that they weren’t dealing with criminals, that they were dealing with freedom fighters. Would the men at Lexington and Concord have seized hostages and ordered takeout and a million big ones? This was a war. If civilians died, they died, casualties in the greater scheme of things. But a hostage situation would net him nothing at all. And even if he got a million dollars—which he would give to the cause—and got away with it, the computer strips hidden in the money could track him every mile he went.
    Brownwood didn’t want to stay in the building, but wanted to get out of it and on his way. There was a special place where he wanted to set his device, and a science fiction and fantasy convention wasn’t it. But the FBI would have surveillance cameras all around the area, watching for his face. He needed to get past those cameras without being seen and one of these costumes would be the perfect vehicle. They weren’t for sale. Books, swords, videotapes, jewelry, all of that was for sale in abundance. So were masks and clothing of all sorts—some of the clothes were disgusting, typical of the corruption liberalism had brought to America. But what he needed was a complete costume and there was only one way to get that...

    Swan supposed that, once her magical abilities had returned to full strength, she could get back to her own universe merely by summoning the magical energy in the air—she could feel that this place had such energy in abundance—and repeating the incantation which had brought her here, only completely backwards. That was, at least, the usual way of such things. There was, of course, the problem that she might return to exactly the same spot she had left, which would now be nothingness. Then, just like a mortal, she would die.
    Logic again came to her rescue, or at least she told herself that it was logic. If she had stood a span to her right or left in the instant when she left her universe, she would probably have arrived here a span to the right or left of where she had. So, if she made certain that when she used her magic to leave here and return to her own universe she was a commensurate distance from the spot where she had arrived (as if that paralleled the castle) to be well out of range of the Mist of Oblivion, she would be all right. On the other hand, if she had stood a span to the right or left before leaving her own universe, she might have come to still a different universe than this. That would mean that unless she left this universe from the exact spot where she had arrived, she would not return to her own