Two more guards.
They're positioned at a set of double doors at the far end, standing shoulder to shoulder. They hear me before they see me. The boots, the harsh breathing from a fucked up face, the wet sound of blood hitting stone.
They turn.
The one on the left has his gun out. Professional. Trained. His stance is good, weight balanced, barrel aimed center mass at the thing moving toward him down the corridor.
The one on the right doesn't even get that far.
He sees my face and bolts.
Turns and runs, abandoning his post, his partner, his fucking dignity, all of it jettisoned in the span of one heartbeat because his lizard brain has overridden everything else and the only signal getting through isRUN.
His boots slap the stone. He rounds the corner and he's gone.
The one with the gun holds.
Credit to him.
His hands are shaking. The barrel wavers. But he holds his ground and his finger is on the trigger and at this range he won't miss.
I don't slow down.
"Stop! STOP or I'll?—"
I close the distance in four strides.
His gun fires too late and I'm on him.
My hand closes around the barrel and twists. His finger catches in the trigger guard and snaps sideways with a sound like a dry stick. He screams. I rip the gun free and hurl it behind me and his broken finger sprays blood across my shirt as he staggers.
He swings at me with his good hand.
I catch it.
I don't remember the next part clearly.
It's red and it's fast and it's the sound of a body hitting a wall and then the floor and then silence. When I come back to myself, the guard is on the ground, his face a mess and his vest torn.
I'm standing over him.
My knuckles are split open.
More blood.
Mine, his, impossible to tell.
Don't give a fuck.
The double doors are in front of me.
The thread is a scream now. A howl of connection pulling me through these doors with a force that would take a fucking army to stop.
I kick them open.
CHAPTER 34
BELLS