Dark Angel: Skin Game Read Free Page B

went flying in opposite directions, clattering, clanking. The flashlight went out when it hit the floor, the room going completely black. His Glock flew to the floor somewhere as well—didn't go off, thankfully—winding up vaguely to the left, where it skittered along until it smacked into a wall.
    Thompson's vision went white, then black, as pain exploded through his being. He heard the whoosh of the board making a second swing, and tried to move out of the way, but then he heard the snap of his left arm breaking, and grunted once before collapsing to the floor. He felt more than saw his attacker, raising the board for a third strike, this one sure to split his head like a melon and leave Melanie a widow and his child fatherless....
    Instinctively rolling toward his attacker, Thompson managed to narrow the distance between them enough so that this time when his opponent swung the board, it whizzed over Thompson's head as he crashed into the attacker's legs and sent the man tumbling across the room. Scrabbling to his left, Thompson used his good hand to feel along the floor for his pistol.
    Behind him he could hear his attacker cursing under his breath as he struggled to regain his feet in the near darkness. Thompson fumbled along, seeking his gun, dust rising, and he repressed a sneeze as he crawled forward.
    Hankins' voice erupted in his headset. "Find anything yet, kid?"
    Fine, Thompson thought, just swell, but he said nothing, not wanting to give his position away to his unwelcoming host. He continued forward, his good hand searching for the Glock, his bad arm throbbing so badly he wanted to pass out.
    "Son of a bitch barge in my house," the attacker muttered thickly behind him in the darkness.

    There!
    Something cool, something metallic—the Glock. His fingers wrapped around it and in one motion, still on his knees, Thompson pivoted, brought up the pistol and fired blindly three times, left, center, right, covering his options.
    Thompson heard the soft thwack of at least one round entering the man's body, heard too the man's involuntary grunt, and finally he heard one more sound: the board dropping from his attacker's hand with a thunk, raising dust. The attacker sagged to the floor, gurgled a couple of times, then was silent.
    "Jesus, kid, I'm comin'!" Hankins' voice shouted in the headset.
    The pistol still in front of him, in his good hand, Thompson got to his feet, shuffled over, found the body in the dark and kicked it a couple of times.
    It didn't move.
    Into the headset, Thompson calmly said, "It's okay. Got a guy down—need a medic.
    My arm's broken, but the attacker's down."
    Hankins' voice sounded like he was underwater. "I'm comin', kid! I'll be right there, I'm on the fifth floor and headed down." The poor overweight bastard was probably running, which meant he might be about to have a heart attack.
    "It's all right, I said," Thompson insisted. "I've got it covered."
    Using his foot, giving the darkness gentle kicks, he finally found the flashlight. He picked the thing up, shook it a couple of times, and was surprised when the beam came back on.
    Struggling to juggle both the light and pistol in one hand—not put any more pressure on his aching arm than he had to—he made his way over and pointed the light down at his attacker's face.

    An old white man with wispy white hair, an open, mostly toothless mouth, and unblinking milky blue eyes stared up at him—no transgenic ... just some poor homeless wretch. The old man had been doing nothing more than protecting his squatter's rights in the tiny office... and for this, Thompson had killed him.
    The young man's stomach turned acidic again, but this time it wasn't from fear. This time it was something far worse—shame ... guilt.
    He didn't know how he'd ever get past this. Since joining White's unit, he'd done some things that he knew he'd eventually regret; but, goddamnit, he'd never killed an innocent man—not until tonight.
    Shaking his head, hot