Shots fired.
Not loud shots, but sound-suppressed shots. Shots that don’t pierce eardrums, but that still pack a solid punch.
Porter’s face disappears in a haze of blood, bone, and brain matter. Tyrel takes one to the shoulder and drops like a stone. He goes for his pistol, returns the fire. The straps that hold me down are quickly cut and I am thrust over someone’s shoulder like a fireman rescuing an unconscious woman from a burning building.
“Grab her stuff!” a man orders.
I’m seeing everything from upside down now. The door opens. An Everest policeman steps inside. He’s got an automatic rifle gripped in his hands. But he never gets a chance to use it. He is shot as soon as he steps foot into the room.
“Go!” a man yells, “Go! Go!”
“Please don’t talk, Tanya,” he says to me.
I wonde
