Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
I squeeze off three rounds from behind a jutting doorframe. Two go wide—my hands are shakier than I’d like—but the third catches a guard in the neck, just above his vest. He drops, clutching his throat, and suddenly there’s a gap in their formation.
I move before they can close it.
Two more shots as I run, not aiming for kills, just suppression, keeping their heads down. A guard pops out from cover and I put one in his shoulder, spinning him sideways. Another tries to flank and I drop him with a double-tap to the chest—his vest catches it but the impact sits him down hard, gasping.
Eight rounds left. Six guards still standing on my side.
The nearest one is smart, using a fallen colleague as cover while he lines up his shot. I don’t give him time to take it. I slide the last few feet, going low, and his burst chews up the wall where my head used to be. My return shot takes him under the chin.
Seven rounds.
I’m on the ground now, exposed, and two of them see the opportunity. They converge from both sides, thinking they’ve got me pinned. I roll onto my back, fire three times to the left—one hit, two misses—then swing right and squeeze the trigger three more times. The first shot goes wide. The second catches a vest. The third finds the gap at his hip, and he folds with a howl.
One round left.
The last guard from my side is already on top of me, rifle swinging down like a club. No time to aim. I shove the Glock up and fire my last bullet point-blank into his groin, below the vest line. He shrieks and crumples, and I’m already rolling away, dropping the empty pistol, pulling the knife from my waistband.
Behind me, I can hear the sounds of Nate’s fight—impacts like car crashes, bodies hitting walls, the shriek of metal being torn. I don’t look. Can’t afford to. The guard I shot in the shoulder is back on his feet, pulling a sidearm with his good hand.
I close the distance before he can raise it. The knife finds the gap between his vest and his helmet. He makes a wet sound and stops moving.
I grab his rifle as he falls—muscle memory taking over, checking the magazine without conscious thought. Half full. Good enough.
Movement to my left. The guard I’d chest-shot is trying to stand, fumbling for his weapon. I put a burst into his thigh and he goes down screaming, out of the fight.
More guards rounding the corner now—reinforcements. I use the fallen body as cover, firing in controlled bursts, making every round count. One drops. Another staggers. A third gets smart and hangs back, waiting for an opening.
I let him think he’s found one.
He breaks from cover, committed to the rush, and I pivot at the last second, letting the rifle’s burst stitch across his chest. The vest holds but the impact throws off his charge. Before he can recover, I’m inside his guard, knife in my left hand now, and the blade finds the soft spot under his arm.
I use his body as a shield when his buddy opens fire. The bullets meant for me shred his back instead. I feel each impact through his dying flesh.
“Sorry,” I mutter, and shove the corpse at the shooter.
They collide. I bring the rifle up and fire twice. The shooter drops.
The rifle clicks empty. I drop it, breathing hard, and realize I’m down to just the knife again. My vision is starting to tunnel and I can taste blood in the back of my throat. But when I turn around, Nate is standing in a circle of fallen bodies, not even breathing hard, and the corridor is clear.
For now.
“You good?” he asks, wiping the blood off his face. Not his blood of course. I doubt anyone laid a finger on him.
“Fantastic.” I spit blood onto the floor. “Almost needed some backup there, but I handled it. Which way?”
He points toward the east corridor. “Stairs are that direction. But there’s more coming—a lot more. We need to—”
A door bursts open ten feet ahead of us.
More guards pour through. Not six this time, not eight. At least fifteen, maybe twenty, flooding into the corridor from some kind of ready room or barracks. And behind them, I can see the glint of something else—heavier weapons, maybe, or armor.
“Bloody hell,” I breathe.
“In here.” Nate grabs my arm, pulls me toward a door on the left. He doesn’t bother with the handle—just rips it off its hinges and shoves me through.
It’s a lab. Clean white surfaces, equipment I don’t recognize, that antiseptic smell that seems to permeate this whole facility. No windows. One door. The one we just came through.
Fuck.
We’re trapped.
“You didn’t know it didn’t go anywhere?” I say, starting to panic.