intravenous needles had nearly vanished fully from sight, leaving behind only the smallest of red welts.
Another chorus of semiautomatic gunshots interrupted any astonishment the man was feeling over his rapidly healing wound. Mal was stunned that he could identify the weapons and number of said devices that were shooting at him: five Heckler & Koch MP5/40 submachine guns, fired in overlapping bursts of three rounds each.
Being able to identify the guns shooting at you was a neat carnival trick, but it wasn’t going to help get him out of danger, Mal told himself harshly. Any second, his attackers were going to resolve it was time to charge into the room and, when that happened, no amount of gun identification was going to save his sorry butt.
If these people had done whatever it was they did to him, Mal was sure they would know how to neutralize him as well.
The sight of a tall, muscular, dark-haired man half-wrapped in a sheet drew Malcolm’s attention. At first, he didn’t realize he was gazing at himself in the wall of glass separating him from eight heartbeats—his hair was cut down almost to the scalp and his icy blue eyes were sunken. His entire face was almost unrecognizable, even to himself.
That’s when it hit him: “two available exits.”
Mal was charging head first for the mirrored wall at the back of the room when hell came through the door behind him.
CHAPTER 2
The operating room’s only door was blown inward from the force of a thunderous impact as Malcolm Weir raced across the cold tiled floor at breakneck speed, heading for what he hoped to be escape.
Senses obviously operating on overdrive told the man the half-dozen hostiles had entered the room and were taking up position behind him. The rapidly increasing heart rates of the two people in front of him on the opposite side of the mirrored wall further informed him those hostiles were about to fire.
Well, to be fair, the sight of a six foot two US Army Ranger with wicked-looking, blood soaked metal arms hauling naked ass towards them at a pace that would make most Olympic sprinters envious was probably enough to get anyone’s heart racing.
The military-esque unit, which Mal could now see reflected in the ten by ten foot mirror in front of him, emerged from the dust cloud caused by their sudden entrance and had formed into two lines, with three black-clad, helmeted members dropping to one knee in front of the remaining three. All were dressed in a variation of law enforcement style tactical gear: visored helmets bearing the letters “GMR” emblazoned on the sides, each followed by a number, long sleeved shirts with some sort of government insignia on their shoulders, covered by Kevlar vests loaded to bear with nylon gun harnesses. Every man wore a pair of pistols on their shoulders, Beretta M9s by the look of them, and some sort of large machine pistols Mal couldn’t identify strapped to their right hips.
In addition to the HK-MP5/40s that five of them carried and were currently pointing at Mal in a threatening manner, they were a formidable group for sure. The sixth man, whom Mal assumed was their leader, and only one without a helmet, held an AA-12 automatic shotgun that, in the tight confines of the surgical theater, worried him more than the other weapons, and the grenade launcher mounted to it didn’t help matters.
If Mal hadn’t been running for his life, he might have noticed the inhuman way five of the members of the GMR-team moved in conjunction with one another, the metallic cables which replaced the thick neck muscles of their fair-haired leader or his chrome right eye. Of course, with escape and self-preservation at the forefront of his mind, it was excusable for him to miss such details.
Mal felt the dull impact of at least six shots against the thick armor that now made up most of his wide back as stream of bullets, laced with tracer fire, punched holes in the ultra-polished surface of the one-way observation wall
Another chorus of semiautomatic gunshots interrupted any astonishment the man was feeling over his rapidly healing wound. Mal was stunned that he could identify the weapons and number of said devices that were shooting at him: five Heckler & Koch MP5/40 submachine guns, fired in overlapping bursts of three rounds each.
Being able to identify the guns shooting at you was a neat carnival trick, but it wasn’t going to help get him out of danger, Mal told himself harshly. Any second, his attackers were going to resolve it was time to charge into the room and, when that happened, no amount of gun identification was going to save his sorry butt.
If these people had done whatever it was they did to him, Mal was sure they would know how to neutralize him as well.
The sight of a tall, muscular, dark-haired man half-wrapped in a sheet drew Malcolm’s attention. At first, he didn’t realize he was gazing at himself in the wall of glass separating him from eight heartbeats—his hair was cut down almost to the scalp and his icy blue eyes were sunken. His entire face was almost unrecognizable, even to himself.
That’s when it hit him: “two available exits.”
Mal was charging head first for the mirrored wall at the back of the room when hell came through the door behind him.
CHAPTER 2
The operating room’s only door was blown inward from the force of a thunderous impact as Malcolm Weir raced across the cold tiled floor at breakneck speed, heading for what he hoped to be escape.
Senses obviously operating on overdrive told the man the half-dozen hostiles had entered the room and were taking up position behind him. The rapidly increasing heart rates of the two people in front of him on the opposite side of the mirrored wall further informed him those hostiles were about to fire.
Well, to be fair, the sight of a six foot two US Army Ranger with wicked-looking, blood soaked metal arms hauling naked ass towards them at a pace that would make most Olympic sprinters envious was probably enough to get anyone’s heart racing.
The military-esque unit, which Mal could now see reflected in the ten by ten foot mirror in front of him, emerged from the dust cloud caused by their sudden entrance and had formed into two lines, with three black-clad, helmeted members dropping to one knee in front of the remaining three. All were dressed in a variation of law enforcement style tactical gear: visored helmets bearing the letters “GMR” emblazoned on the sides, each followed by a number, long sleeved shirts with some sort of government insignia on their shoulders, covered by Kevlar vests loaded to bear with nylon gun harnesses. Every man wore a pair of pistols on their shoulders, Beretta M9s by the look of them, and some sort of large machine pistols Mal couldn’t identify strapped to their right hips.
In addition to the HK-MP5/40s that five of them carried and were currently pointing at Mal in a threatening manner, they were a formidable group for sure. The sixth man, whom Mal assumed was their leader, and only one without a helmet, held an AA-12 automatic shotgun that, in the tight confines of the surgical theater, worried him more than the other weapons, and the grenade launcher mounted to it didn’t help matters.
If Mal hadn’t been running for his life, he might have noticed the inhuman way five of the members of the GMR-team moved in conjunction with one another, the metallic cables which replaced the thick neck muscles of their fair-haired leader or his chrome right eye. Of course, with escape and self-preservation at the forefront of his mind, it was excusable for him to miss such details.
Mal felt the dull impact of at least six shots against the thick armor that now made up most of his wide back as stream of bullets, laced with tracer fire, punched holes in the ultra-polished surface of the one-way observation wall
Similar Books
Betrayal's Shadow
K H Lemoyne
Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It)
Callie Harper
Identity Crisis (Rocky Mountain Novella Series)
Rory Chambers
The Forsyte Saga
John Galsworthy
All the Pope's Men
Jr. John L. Allen
Little Black Dress with Bonus Material
Susan McBride
Hot Toy
Jennifer Crusie
Need Us
Amanda Heath
When the Cat's Away
Kinky Friedman
The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae
Nick Brown