I listened, hearing the faint crackle through the ceiling. Shot after shot filled my ears. Domingo’s men had arrived from the sounds of it.
Black Tactical grabbed the barrel of his rifle and retrieved his mask from the floor. Burly took a step back, eyeing the hallway. His elbow bent, giving me a bit of room to move.
I knocked his hand away with my arm, then pulled the P320 from his holster. He flinched, then looked back at me. I fired two rounds in his chest at close range. He fell to the ground—dead on impact.
Black Tactical shouldered his rifle and turned toward me. I unloaded the magazine in his chest and placed one shot through the middle of his forehead. He dropped the rifle to the floor, then crumbled inside the doorway.
My ears rang. I tossed the spent P320 to the floor and made for the hallway. I picked up the rifle and ejected the magazine. Fully stocked.
I slapped it into place, shouldered the weapon, then stepped over his body. I peered out into the hallway, slipped through the doorway, and moved in the direction Anna was taken.
The hammering of gunfire remained steady. I moved fast, sweeping the hallway. Light from around the bend washed over the far wall. Heavy footfalls tromped the floor, heading my way.
I killed the light, paused at the corner, and waited.
The light grew brighter. I lowered the rifle and turned it around. The barrel of the rifle materialized past the corner, followed by its handler. I hammered the side of his shadowy head with the buttstock of the rifle, sending him to the floor. I moved in quick, kicking the groaning man in his face. His head snapped back, then fell forward—lifeless.
The lights overhead flickered and came on. I squinted and diverted my gaze toward the floor, giving my eyes time to adjust to the gleam. The familiar hum of electricity pumping through the bulbs remained steady. I peered down the hallway at the camera mounted on the wall. They’d be working now.
I shouldered the rifle and moved down the hallway, trying to steer clear of the camera’s lens. I followed along the snaking path, stopping at each junction and sweeping the next corridor.
The steel door at the end of the hallway sat open. The hammering of gunfire loomed from the space beyond.
I ventured down the corridor, heading toward the doorway. Multiple rounds pinged off the steel door. I stopped and took a knee. One of McCone’s men stumbled past the corner, and slammed into the door. His shoulders sagged, his chest heaving.
The pistol he carried was trained at the floor. He lifted his arm and looked in the direction he’d fled from.
A swarm of incoming fire hit him center mass. His body jolted. His arm dropped to his side, and he slid down the door. He hit the ground and dumped over onto the floor.
A lean man with thick, black hair wearing a black bandana with crosses on it approached with his heater trained at the dead man. He stopped, then turned my way.
I lined up the barrel of the rifle with his forehead. He aimed his piece at me, but didn’t fire. He lowered the weapon slowly and advanced toward me. I moved out of his way, keeping the rifle shouldered and trained on him as he passed by.
He paused at the corner for a second, then spun around with his piece up and at the ready.
I darted down the corridor and out through the doorway, stepping over the dead man slumped onto his side. I checked the hallway at my three o’clock, and found it clear of any targets.
I kept close to the wall, the rifle shouldered, and rushed to the next corner of the hallway. The soles of my shoes squeaked over the tile floor. My heart thumped inside my ears. Panted breaths escaped my parted lips.
The double doors at the far end of the corridor had taken damage. The wood grain was splintered from the multiple rounds that punched through the door. Gunshots loomed from beyond the doors.
I toed the edge of the wall, listening and watching the doors. The gunfire increased. Round after round punched through the dense wood.
The doors flung open, slamming against the walls. One of Domingo’s men lurched through the doorway, dragging his foot along the floor. Muzzle fire flashed behind him. The rounds hit his back and punched through his chest. His face contorted in pain. His knees gave. He fell to the floor face first.
I fired at the long, black-haired man who wielded the Uzi, hitting him in the stomach. He dropped to his knees, palming his gut. I moved beyond the corner of the wall with my attention focused on the open doors.
A flash of movement surprised me from the adjoining hallway. I spun on my heels. A knife sliced across my forearm, cutting through the sleeve of the jacket with ease.
My hand released the hand grip of the rifle. The barrel dipped toward the tile floor. I backed away, putting distance between me and the attacker.
Stocky flipped the blade around in his hand with the serrated edge pointing toward the floor. He charged me like a bull seeing red.
I used the rifle as a shield, deflecting each strike of his blade. The knife clanged off the weapon. He forced me backward, unyielding in his attacks.
Stocky slashed at my stomach. I knocked his arm away, then rammed the buttstock of the rifle into his face. He took a step back, shook his head, then gnashed his teeth.
“I’m going to gut you right here on this floor,” he said, sounding more beast than man.
“We’ll see about that,” I shot back.
He lunged at me. The
