No. I don’t believe in angels.
Demons.
They came back. The cleanup crew. Mercer sent the team to finish the job.
Rage ignites in the marrow of my bones. A coal buried so deep the cold can’t reach it.
Not yet.
I won’t die on my knees or hiding in a hole.
I fumble for the SIG. I use clumsy claws fused with cold. I smash my hand against the holster, dislodging the weapon. I jam it between my knees to rack the slide, using body weight because my grip strength is gone.
Click.
Live round.
I drag myself out of the engine bay.
I fall into the snow. The impact barely registers through the numbness.
I push myself up. I stagger. My legs buckle, but I fight, locking my knees to stand.
The light sits right on top of me. The wind from the rotors forms a hurricane, whipping the snow into a blinding vortex.
A shadow drops from the sky. Then another.
Fast ropes. Men sliding down into the kill zone.
They hit the ground running. Weapons raised. Lasers cut through the dark.
I raise the SIG.
I waver. The gun weighs a thousand pounds. I can’t find the sight picture or the trigger.
“Drop it.”
A distorted, amplified voice cuts through the air.
“Weapon. Drop the weapon.”
I don’t drop it. I sway, aiming at the lead shadow.
Come on. Take the shot.
The shadow rushes me.
I try firing. Misfire. The neural connection sits severed.
Impact.
The shadow hits me low in a brutal tackle.
We go down hard. The air leaves my lungs. The gun flies from my grip, disappearing into the drift.
I thrash.
I strike out blindly. I aim for the throat and eyes like a feral animal cornered in a trap.
