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about to let himself get pinned in the alleyway by these giants, especially as the two goons were stirring. The odds were suddenly not in his favor. He decided his best recourse was to take them by surprise: charge them and try to smash his way through to the street beyond. At least then he'd be out in the open and he'd have more chance of getting away if he needed to bolt. But then there was the shopkeeper ...
    He had to act. He'd fight the men, but he needed to change the odds. Steeling himself, he charged, aiming squarely for the space between the two giants, hoping to knock them aside as he rushed past. He'd then fling himself over the armored car and duck for cover while he worked out his next move.

    The Ghost dipped his head and presented his shoulders to the two men. Too late he saw them close ranks, and he was unable to stop his forward momentum. He crashed into the mobsters at full speed, still hopeful that his weight would carry him between them. But instead he rebounded painfully, his head and shoulders smarting as if he had charged into a solid wall. He fell to the ground, shaking his head groggily, his nostrils filled with the scent of damp earth.
    Regaining his senses just in time, he rolled to the left as a powerful fist came slamming down, narrowly missing his head. He hit the alley wall and sprang to his feet, using the brickwork to steady himself. Who were these men? He'd barely had time to ask himself the question when another fist came flying at him, and he had to duck to one side to avoid its crushing impact. It crashed into the wall where he'd been standing with enough force to shatter all of the bones in its owner's hand, but the man seemed hardly to notice, simply wheeling around in an ungainly fashion to take another swing at the vigilante. He didn't even grunt with the pain or the exertion.
    The Ghost kicked out, catching one of the giants in the midriff. The mobster didn't react, didn't even acknowledge the blow, whilst the Ghost came away with a sharp pain in his leg, as if his booted foot had just encountered solid iron. He could hear one of the goons laughing in the background somewhere. "Hey, Mickey, looks like the Roman was right about these things, eh?"
    Trapped against the wall, the two giants closing in on him, the Ghost decided that the only thing he could do was shoot his way out. He flicked his right wrist and the pneumatic trigger for the flechette gun slid into his palm. He squeezed, showering first one of the lumbering figures, then the other, in a hail of tiny steel blades. He heard the flechettes strike home, embedding themselves in the giants' torsos with a rapid series of dull thuds. But again, his efforts appeared to have no effect on the men, and they continued their assault regardless. He had no idea what the things were, but it was becoming clear to him that they weren't human. There was no way a human being could have withstood a spray of steel blades like that and carried on walking.
    Unsure what else he could do, the Ghost tried to duck away again, but one of the giants' fists struck home, powering deep into his stomach. He doubled over, clutching at his belly, unable to stop himself from slumping to the ground. All of the wind had been driven out of his lungs by the impact of the blow. Gasping, he glanced up, realizing with horror that, beneath their hats, these giants-these monsters-had no faces.

    The creature loomed over him. The Ghost thrashed out in desperation, clawing at its throat. His fingers sank into something soft and pliable and he tore at it, gouging a handful of the stuff in an effort to stop the giant in its tracks. With dismay he realized the monster was entirely unaffected by the action. He glanced down at his hand. His fist was filled with soft moss and crumbling earth. He was filled with a sudden sense of creeping terror. The things were formed from clods of clay; golems in the shape of men, somehow animated to create deadly foot soldiers, and dressed in