When they yelled that there was no way out he laughed. He'd been up against a hundred men before, trained soldiers all armed with the best their country could buy, looking for him and signs of what he'd done. None of them had fired a shot. They'd never even been sure that he was there to begin with.
But this time was different. This time there were ten men and every last one of them needed to die, because that was what Uncle Sam wanted. And he would give them that, bullet by bullet, body by body.
The first one was leaning across the open doorway when Sam shot him in the forehead. He crumpled down across the tile floor, gun clattering loudly in the silence. There was a moment where nothing happened. The yelling went on, and no one moved. And then someone swore loudly and Sam could hear footsteps, moving toward the man he'd shot. And then there was another man in the doorway dragging his dead comrade to cover, and Sam shot him too. One in the chest, one in the head. The first one did nothing against the body armor, but the second put a cloud of red in the air before the man dropped backward, silent.
The yelling voice faltered. Sam could hear radio chatter, calling in for a head count. While they were busy he made a quick lunge for the wall next to the door, flicked a fiber-optic around the corner, and then sprang out into the light, hugging the wall.
There was no one there. Not yet. He had toys to play with now, though. The Five-seveN was integrally suppressed, but the guns of the men he'd shot weren't. He covered one ear with his left hand and put his right arm against his right ear and fired three shots in succession down the hall, and yelled.
He tossed the gun back where it had been before and waited at the corner. Sure enough, footsteps. Running footsteps. Right before the runner rounded the corner he stepped out and jabbed the Five-seveN forward, catching the man in the throat. The man's momentum dropped him with a crushed windpipe, and Sam put one in his head, then dragged him around the corner to the others. But there was another hallway and he could hear more footsteps, two sets now, trying to be quiet. He waited, then decided there were better alternatives. With a smile he pulled a single item off his belt and tossed it forward. The footsteps stopped.
Someone started to yell right as the proximity mine went off, but the words stopped short as a brief high-pitched crack of an explosion sent thousands of pieces of shrapnel down the corridor. There were two thuds and one moan. Sam crossed the wall and ducked out. There was a lot of blood, but one man was still moving. He put one in the underside of his jaw and drew back.
Five. Half to go.
He hit a button on his wristpad and the lights went out. Then he gritted his teeth and charged down the hall, shoulder-rammed the door, and went into a roll toward the desk he knew would be waiting. There was gunfire and for a second he couldn't hear, but nothing hit him. The lights came slowly back on, and there was scattered cursing from all directions. Sam winced. He'd picked a bad spot to rest.
A man walked past the desk and Sam shot him in the leg, and as he fell, yelling, he put one more in the base of his neck. The scream stopped midway and he rolled out from under the desk—
—right into another man.
His gun was in his hand so he used it. Uppercut to the groin. Jab to the solar plexus. Jab to the face, headshot. The man dropped before he had the time to fire, and his gun dropped too, heavy and loud. Someone must have had a finger inside the trigger guard because there was a three-round burst from somewhere, and Sam threw himself into a roll and crashed into a desk, breathing hard. He'd lost track of them. That was bad.
He went under the desk and then past a cubicle, around the corner and inside. On went the goggles. In a wave of white the entire world became x-ray grey, and the two men in the room were white and clear. One left, crouching, the other right, standing. He smiled and stalked around the corner, raised his pistol, and shot them both in a clean rightward sweep, two headshots, two kills.
Nine.
The last man was the one with the megaphone. He was outside, pistol aimed at the only door. Unluckily for him, it was open. Sam rolled his eyes at the continued yelling and pulled a flashbang off his belt, tossed it, and covered his ears. At the bang he sprang out and bolted. Left hand sweep for the disarm, right hand jab to solar plexus to disorient. Then a quick controlling kick to the man's right leg and Sam had him as a body shield, pistol to his head, arm across his chest.
Ten.
"Hi. I'm Sam."