Deadly Game
The lead mercenary dropped hard against the broken glass, a tight cluster of crimson blooming across his chest.
"Through the service corridor!" I yelled over the deafening roar of the gunfire, ducking beneath the kitchen island as a stray round pulverized the espresso machine right above my head.
We sprinted toward the narrow, concrete-reinforced hallway that led to the utility rooms. But as we breached the doorway, a fourth mercenary materialized from the shadows of the adjacent pantry, his automatic rifle rising with absolute, lethal certainty, pointed straight at my chest.
I didn't have the angle to draw my weapon in time. My breath hitched.