They come around both corners simultaneously—tactical formation, rifles up, shouting commands that blur together under the shriek of the alarms. I count six from my side, see more shadows behind them. They’re expecting a hostage situation. They’re expecting Nate to be holding Julia, slowed down, vulnerable.
They’re not expecting me to be standing on my own two feet with a knife and a gun in my hands and murder in my heart.
“Contact!” someone shouts. “Both targets mobile!”
Nate moves first.
He’s a blur, faster than anything human should be, and the first guard doesn’t even have time to scream before Nate’s fist connects with his chest. The body flies backward, bowling into the men behind him, and then Nate is among them, a tornado of violence in the strobing red light.
I drop low, making them wonder if it’s a loss of balance or a tactical maneuver, and the first burst goes over my head. My body screams at the movement, ribs grinding, but the pain is distant now, locked away somewhere I’ll deal with later. Right now there’s only the Glock in my hands and the muscle memory of a hundred training sessions.
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?—”
