A very taciturn Secret Service agent drives you to the abandoned Postal Service sorting facility. He stops the Ford Expedition at the chained up gate, leaving the SUV running, headlights on. He opens the back door for you; there is no handle on the inside.

“Please step out of the vehicle,” he says.

It had been a frightening ride to the facility, midnight streets of Washington DC in blurry neon and a trash fires. The protesting had intensified in the days before the election. Someone had jumped out to try to stop the hurtling Secret Service vehicle. The agent swerved just enough to only clip them with the armored side mirror. When you looked back, they had collapsed in the street. They didn’t move the entire time you watched.

“Please go to the rear of the vehicle,” the agent orders.

The agent pops the back hatch and trays of weapons and armor jut out toward you.

“Take what gear you are comfortable with. I leave in ten minutes.” He takes a huge set of bolt cutters and walks toward the gate.

You outfit yourself with an AR-style assault gun platform weapon rifle, a single point sling, two 9mm Glocks, and a black tacticool vest to hold all your extra magazines of ammunition. You hear a loud clunking sound and the agent comes back with the bolt cutter.

“Eight minutes,” he says. “And take a melee weapon.”

You look over the selection: machete, hatchet, fire axe, samurai sword, crowbar, baseball bat, baseball bat with nails, collapsible baton, cattle prod, captive bolt cattle stunner. You grab the fire axe.

“Good choice,” the agent says, his voice now less robotic.

“Kind of heavy,” you say. “I’ve got to watch my encumbrance.”

“But you might need to get through doors,” the agent offered, scanning the area and not looking at you.

“But how much do the ballots weigh?”

“You don’t have to bring them out, just verify they are in there. Then call in an airstrike.” He stuffs a satphone into one of your empty vest pockets. “Some white phosphorus and it is all taken care of.”

“Cool,” you say.

“Don’t be in the building when you call,” he says.

You nod, your mouth suddenly dry.

“You’ll do good,” he says. As he drives away, you walk through the gate with the sheared-off chain. The loading dock is facing you, in the deepest pool of shadows. You wonder if you should have brought night-vision goggles.

“Get it together, Kyle,” you whisper to yourself.

You climb onto the loading dock and take out a hooded flashlight. All four giant roll-up doors are down and padlocked. The door into the building on the far end is locked up as well, and boards are nailed over it.

DO YOU attempt to open the loading dock door? TURN TO PAGE 20

DO YOU attempt to open the padlocked roll-up doors? TURN TO PAGE 25