and they were in the apartment, weapons readied. They advanced cautiously into a well lit, tidy living area. To Quinn, it made their stealth seem faintly ridiculous. Still, he crossed the threshold with care, ready with the command to kill the power if necessary.
"Sir?"
He crossed to the kitchen and looked around the door frame. For a second the sight of Cry stretched out on the bloody linoleum was almost enough to make Quinn lose his cool. What was going on here, he thought. Cry was a trained operative, skilled in the art of stealth and exhumation: this was not the way it was supposed to be. And where was Rollins?
"Sir!" This time from the bathroom. He stalked through the apartment, ready this time for the sight that met his eyes. For a moment he just stared at the body of his former squad member and the broken glass. There was a lot of blood liberally spread over the walls, the coppery smell of it filling the small room with a sickly headiness. It caught in the back of his throat. This was turning into a Goddamned mess.
"So where are they?" he demanded at last. "Find them."
It took a while, moving room to room under the sweeping cover of their gun barrels, but eventually they discovered the jagged hole in the wardrobe and this time Quinn almost did lose it but bit down on the frustration. Who were these people, he thought. And why the hell did they have a pre-planned escape route?
"Follow," he whispered through clenched teeth.
Lit by criss-crossing torch beams, they made their way through the empty building, automatics twitching at every sound, hackles up. Dust motes spun and floated lazily in the light whilst every sound seemed to echo unnaturally in the stillness. Boards shifted and creaked in the floor under the weight of heavy footfalls. But Quinn simply walked through it all, weapon holstered, no longer did he expect to catch his prey.
They worked their way with systematic patience through the abandoned building, down the winding stair, until they stood huddled around a chain left scattered negligently on the broken floor and a discarded padlock with the key still shining in the heavy lock. It had strands of tape still attached to it. The door banged emptily in the breeze, the street beyond lying dark and empty but for the cascading rain.
Quinn rested his hand on the lintel and stared out into the night.
"Shit," he said. He looked round at his milling troops, lurking uncertainly in the cold hall and sighed heavily. So much for snatching glory with your first command, he thought ruefully. Oh well.
He drew his pistol and used the barrel to fully push open the door, listened to it creak wide with grim expectancy. He thought about his options: two of his six man squad were dead, how could he hope to find two men in the twisting maze of dark streets that lay before him. They could be anywhere.
"Hendriks," Quinn hissed into his radio, "Has anyone come round the front of the building?"
"Negative," came Hendriks’ static gargling reply. So, if they didn’t loop the building, they must have headed straight through the alleyway at its back.
"Check your GPS, what’s East of our current position?" He listened to the crackling silence for a few moments.
"Warehouse district, sir," Hendriks answered at length. Storage? A mental image bloomed in his mind, a picture of a honeycomb of garages and locked sheds, a spreading hive of potential hidey-holes. He swallowed down his negative thoughts like a bitter pill, squaring his shoulders against the long night.
"Let’s move."
We went as quickly as we dared, splashing through deep puddles whilst cold, sharp raindrops stung our faces. Passing from hidden doorways to covered fire-escapes, keeping as much as possible to the shadows. Corg led the way down the street and into a row of vast warehouse buildings and boxy, dilapidated storage units with sliding latticed chain link doors secured with big, rusty locks.
Steam rose in unnatural formations from the tarmac as the
"Sir?"
He crossed to the kitchen and looked around the door frame. For a second the sight of Cry stretched out on the bloody linoleum was almost enough to make Quinn lose his cool. What was going on here, he thought. Cry was a trained operative, skilled in the art of stealth and exhumation: this was not the way it was supposed to be. And where was Rollins?
"Sir!" This time from the bathroom. He stalked through the apartment, ready this time for the sight that met his eyes. For a moment he just stared at the body of his former squad member and the broken glass. There was a lot of blood liberally spread over the walls, the coppery smell of it filling the small room with a sickly headiness. It caught in the back of his throat. This was turning into a Goddamned mess.
"So where are they?" he demanded at last. "Find them."
It took a while, moving room to room under the sweeping cover of their gun barrels, but eventually they discovered the jagged hole in the wardrobe and this time Quinn almost did lose it but bit down on the frustration. Who were these people, he thought. And why the hell did they have a pre-planned escape route?
"Follow," he whispered through clenched teeth.
Lit by criss-crossing torch beams, they made their way through the empty building, automatics twitching at every sound, hackles up. Dust motes spun and floated lazily in the light whilst every sound seemed to echo unnaturally in the stillness. Boards shifted and creaked in the floor under the weight of heavy footfalls. But Quinn simply walked through it all, weapon holstered, no longer did he expect to catch his prey.
They worked their way with systematic patience through the abandoned building, down the winding stair, until they stood huddled around a chain left scattered negligently on the broken floor and a discarded padlock with the key still shining in the heavy lock. It had strands of tape still attached to it. The door banged emptily in the breeze, the street beyond lying dark and empty but for the cascading rain.
Quinn rested his hand on the lintel and stared out into the night.
"Shit," he said. He looked round at his milling troops, lurking uncertainly in the cold hall and sighed heavily. So much for snatching glory with your first command, he thought ruefully. Oh well.
He drew his pistol and used the barrel to fully push open the door, listened to it creak wide with grim expectancy. He thought about his options: two of his six man squad were dead, how could he hope to find two men in the twisting maze of dark streets that lay before him. They could be anywhere.
"Hendriks," Quinn hissed into his radio, "Has anyone come round the front of the building?"
"Negative," came Hendriks’ static gargling reply. So, if they didn’t loop the building, they must have headed straight through the alleyway at its back.
"Check your GPS, what’s East of our current position?" He listened to the crackling silence for a few moments.
"Warehouse district, sir," Hendriks answered at length. Storage? A mental image bloomed in his mind, a picture of a honeycomb of garages and locked sheds, a spreading hive of potential hidey-holes. He swallowed down his negative thoughts like a bitter pill, squaring his shoulders against the long night.
"Let’s move."
We went as quickly as we dared, splashing through deep puddles whilst cold, sharp raindrops stung our faces. Passing from hidden doorways to covered fire-escapes, keeping as much as possible to the shadows. Corg led the way down the street and into a row of vast warehouse buildings and boxy, dilapidated storage units with sliding latticed chain link doors secured with big, rusty locks.
Steam rose in unnatural formations from the tarmac as the
Similar Books
