Glassy eyes stared down at an angle. A tightly wrapped rag had been placed between the man’s teeth. Rope held his body upright against the black rolling chair.
“Jesus, that’s Harry,” Rogue blurted.
Atlas lowered his weapon. Regret funneled inside him. They should’ve moved earlier. If they’d gotten here sooner, they could’ve caught Rex before he did this. “Fuck.”
There was a deep slash across Harry’s throat, and puddles of blood covered the table and his body.
“When did you speak with him last?” Atlas asked Rogue.
His friend swiped sweat off his cheek. “Dunno. An hour ago?”
“Havoc and Reaper, let’s go,” Viper ordered. “We’re sweeping the building again.”
Rogue gave a sharp nod.
Reaper grumbled with annoyance but followed the guys from the room.
Atlas rubbed the back of his neck, his rifle pointed at the carpet. “How long were they onto Harry? Christ.”
Rogue let his weapon hang across his chest, hooking his thumb in his bulletproof vest. “That slippery bastard.” His lip curled. “I want that motherfucker.”
Atlas grunted. He wanted Rex dead, but he kept that bit to himself. Rogue jerked his head toward the door and they strode out, taking the east staircase.
“Viper, report area status,” Rogue said into the mic as they descended the stairs.
“No enemy contact. We’re out front.”
They reached the main floor and opened the door leading to the lobby. Sure enough, not a soul in sight. Which should have relieved him. Instead, he saw fucking red.
“Now what?” He hated that question almost as much as he hated walking out of the building empty-handed.
Worst of all, he knew he couldn’t go back to the motel as planned.
Rogue’s mouth tensed.
Atlas unsnapped the deadbolt on the large glass door, and they stepped into the heat of the night. Critters croaked and squeaked.
Probably laughing at them.
They hung a right, heading in the direction of where they’d parked. Havoc, Viper, and Reaper stood in a circle waiting by the curb. When they approached, they all moved west.
A large white pickup truck cruised down the street.
Atlas tightened his grip on his weapon. “Twelve o’clock.”
The vehicle stopped dead in the road.
Warning blared in his head. He lifted his weapon, as did the others.
“Get out of the vehicle!” Rogue bellowed, taking an aggressive step forward.
Unease pounded against Atlas’s temples. He shifted, ready to fire. The vehicle sat idle. No movement from the inside, but the truck remained just out of reach from the nearest lamppost’s glow.
“Taking out their tires,” Rogue announced. He opened fire, hitting the front wheels. The blast of rubber exploding echoed in the night.
“Move in,” Rogue commanded.
Something wasn’t right. Atlas stayed rooted to the spot. “Hold back!”
