Ambush by Sigmund Brouwer

wanted to do was push forward and fall out of my wheelchair and roll on top of him and somehow wrestle with him until he gave up.
    But his weight changed that. He’d locked the brakes on my wheelchair and, braced from going backward, it flipped forward with his weight. Because I was trying to push forward too, it gave extra force.
    Dr. Jordan’s head hit the edge of the desk with a sickening thump. He tumbled to the floor, groaned once as he flopped a few times, then collapsed completely. Unconscious.
    â€œHis neuron gun,” Ashley said after a second of silent disbelief. “Can you get it from him?”
    I, too, stared in disbelief. “Won’t work for me. Each gun is matched to the fingerprints programmed into it.”
    â€œWe’ve got to do something. Fast. He could wake up any second.”
    I stared at Dr. Jordan for another couple of seconds. His glasses had fallen from his face.
    â€œCan you slide your chair this way?” I asked Ashley. “I think I have an idea.”

CHAPTER 22
    Ten minutes later, Blaine Steven walked into Dr. Jordan’s office.
    I couldn’t see him. I could only hear his first words to Dr. Jordan. His voice was muffled to me. “I came as soon as possible. What is—?”
    I knew why he’d stopped in surprise because I could picture what he saw.
    Ashley was standing near the computer with the busted screen. I was slumped in my wheelchair, my head down, in the robot activation zone of concentration, with the transmitter connected to my neck-plug. And Dr. Jordan sat in the chair where Ashley had been taped to the armrests. Only now Dr. Jordan was the one whose wrists were taped in place, his right hand holding the neuron gun, pointed at the doorway.
    â€œDr. Jordan!” Steven said. “Your face!” There was a pause. “Your nose!”
    I could picture, too, exactly how it appeared to Blaine Steven. Dr. Jordan’s nose had been duct-taped shut. That way he couldn’t sneeze or snort out a blast of air. Otherwise, the ant-bot would be gone, and there would be no way to force Dr. Jordan to do as he’d been told.
    I waited for him to follow the first step of our instructions.
    A loud, angry yell reached me.
    Step 1. Hit Steven in the legs with the neuron gun. Right on schedule.
    â€œShut up,” Dr. Jordan told Steven. Dr. Jordan’s voice was loud to me. Very loud. “And do exactly as I say. Ashley is going to tape your hands together. Let her do it, or I’ll be forced to fire another shot.”
    â€œThat’s a … that’s a …”
    â€œYes,” Dr. Jordan said. “It’s a neuron gun.”
    â€œBut. . . but …”
    I wasn’t surprised Blaine Steven sounded muffled to me or that Dr. Jordan’s voice was loud and echoed weirdly. I was, after all, in Dr. Jordan’s sinuses. That’s right. Up his nose.
    Seconds later I heard Ashley. “It’s done, Tyce. He’s taped. Wrists and ankles.”
    Good. Dr. Jordan was taped in his chair. Steven was sitting on the floor, also taped and helpless. They couldn’t do anything to Ashley now.
    â€œGive me the computer code that disables all the neuron guns,” Dr. Jordan said to Steven. “If you do, I’ll send Ashley to your office, where she’ll enter the code. And then you’ll be safe.”
    â€œHave you lost your mind?” came Steven’s voice. I imagined his face growing red with rage underneath his thick gray hair.
    â€œGive me the code,” Dr. Jordan said, “or I’ll have to shoot again.”
    â€œJordan,” Steven said, “if I disable your gun, all the neuron guns under the dome will be disabled. What’s gotten into you?”
    Ashley giggled. “That’s a better question than you know.”
    If the ant-bot inside Dr. Jordan’s nose had been capable of giggling, I’d have done it too.
    Ashley continued to speak. “Tyce, give