Long, metal tables stretched in uneven rows, scattered with destroyed computers and glass bottles. Torn paper stuck in patches to the top, cemented in place by splatters of dried blood. A rolling cart covered in hacksaws and bone grinders stood next to one cell, turned up on three wheels like someone had shoved it away in a mad rush.
In a daze, Mack stumbled to the middle cell, fixated on the dog tags hanging from a clear peg next to the entry. Fingers numb with shock, he lifted the metal chain and stared at the name typed in raised font on the flat disks. Subject G.
“Whose, is it?” Merc asked in a harsh voice from behind Mack.
Merc crushed the tags in his fist and yanked them from the peg. “I don’t know.” But he intended to find out. “Spread out and look for signs of Caroline.”
“I’m going to peel Mankel’s nails off his fingers,” Merc said.
Hunter approached, staring past them into the empty cell. “He has to die. Tonight.”
“Not until he tells us where she is.” Mack shoved the tags into his pocket and turned his back on the cell, unable to stomach the idea of anyone held prisoner here, let alone an innocent woman.
From their vantage point, the room appeared empty, as did all the cells. There were eight of them. “Moving. Watch my six.”
Mack stepped into the room, crouched low with his gun raised, ready for another attack. Sweat popped on his brow, and the hairs down his legs stood on end as if he had stuck his toes in an electric outlet. Fuck. There was some next-level shit going on down here, and Mack got the uneasy sensation they were about to meet up with whatever Mankel’s experiment had created. “Keep your eyes peeled. I’m getting a bad feeling.”
But they couldn’t turn back, not now. Mankel was down here, and Mack would rather die than let that bastard go again.
Besides, what else did he have to live for? He existed to exact revenge on the man who had betrayed him. And once he finally achieved his goal, Mack could rest easy.
He sensed more than saw a movement to his right.
Mack swung around in time to see—but not intervene—as a soldier circled behind Riser, disarmed him, and then delivered a hard punch to his temple. Riser crumpled instantly, unconscious.
Mack hissed in a breath. “Attack.”
Like a lethal swarm of hornets, enemy combatants rose up from behind the tables, all of them in black, all of them moving without the assistance of night vision goggles, and all of them bigger than any man on his team.
“Hunter, two o’clock.”
Hunter grunted, throwing a right hook as he spun to meet his silent opponent.
“Jared, your left.” Jared Crowe brought a knife around with him, but his attacker jumped back as he sliced the air between them. Shit.
These men moved with a lethal fluidity and speed even faster than Reaper. They acted and reacted a split second before his men, as if they were anticipating the moves. The first trickle of unease ran down his spine.
“Colonel?” Merc called out, ripping a knife from his opponent’s hand. He slapped a meaty arm around the man’s neck, pulling him up tight against his chest.
Mack didn’t bother turning; he wouldn’t have time. Letting instinct guide him, he jabbed the butt of his rifle to his left, made contact with something that felt more like a solid wall than a man. He only had a nanosecond to savor the feeling before a fist slammed into his jaw. Mack stumbled right, his left ear blazing with pain and ringing louder than the Big Ben. Shit, he’d never been hit so hard—and he’d been hit plenty. Gathering his wits, he squared off. A rifle would be no good to him in this proximity. Mack dropped it and went for his pistol.
No one in the room spoke. There were only grunts and thuds and the sound of tables crashing to the ground.
“Come on, bastard. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Without hesitation, the man leaped forward, and before Mack could even squeeze off a round, he’d taken another heavy punch. What the hell? Another hit; Mack took it on the chin like a good soldier, trying to maintain his grip on the gun.
His attacker kept renewing his attack. Mack fell back, swinging up a leg and sweeping it around. The man jumped, easily missing the kick. The assassin was too fast. Too strong. Mack couldn’t take him in hand-to-hand combat and come out on top.
How the hell were these guys fighting in complete blackness without any night-vision goggles? “How can you see me?” Mack ground out, raising his weapon once more.
The assassin spun in the air and slammed into Mack’s wrist.
A cracking pain shot up Mack’s arm, but he held on to his gun, unwilling to give up his only chance for surviving this fight.
The assassin stared directly at Mack, no expression on his face whatsoever.
It was as if he was empty, not really a man but a machine. The exact same look that had been in Reaper’s eyes. “What are you?”
