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I manage to shift the angle of the blade that the asshole is trying to drive into my left arm.
And then I abruptly release my grip.
I grit my teeth at the searing pain as it drives into my side.
I know it’s just a flesh wound, because I manipulated his arm, and there won’t be too much blood loss either that will compromise me more than I already am with the accursed sedative.
It works as I intended, sending a massive surge of adrenaline through me. That, combined with the rage induced by the pain, gives me the edge I need to push through the weakness plaguing me and impacting my reaction times.
It also slams the guy right against me.
I hook my arm around his neck, forcing him into an incapacitating head lock as I then rip out the blade from my side and his grip, spin it around, and plunge it into his thigh. I twist it on the way out and he screams, dropping to his knees. I kick them out from under him and he crashes to the ground in a heap. A quick kick to the side of the head, knocks him unconscious.
My senses scream at me about a threat from the two guys behind me.
One of them jumps on my back.
The brutal weight has me crashing into a coffee table.
It collapses under the impact, the glass top shattering, the ruins and shards biting into my wounded side.
As the two guys circle me, I catch sight of another half a dozen hurrying down the corridor.
Son of a bitch.
I kick back one of the circling guys, propelling him into a couch.
The other one lunges at me and wraps his hand around my throat.
He’s straddling me in the next second.
A choked scream escapes me as he digs the fingers of his free hand into my bloodied side.
“Yield,” he commands.
“Never,” I seethe, throwing my fist and catching him across the cheek.
His head snaps to the side, but he doesn’t break his grip on me.
I look out to see that their backup is seconds from piling into the room and overrunning me.
And then one of the bay windows explodes, shocking us all.
As the wreckage clears, I take in a masked man in black tactical gear in a primed crouch, a knife in one hand, a Desert Eagle in the other.
He lobs the knife and it cuts through the air like a beast, before plunging into the throat of the guy straddling me. Blood spurts everywhere, dousing my neck and chest and he falls back, clutching his throat frantically. It’s futile, the mysterious interloper clearly severed an artery.
The guy in question fires off a shot at the other guy around me, shooting him right through the temple. He drops like a ragdoll.
“End him!” the guy at the forefront of the backup unit of Gatekeepers bellows as the six of them barrel into the room.
I watch the mysterious stranger tap his earpiece, able to read his lips through the commotion as he says, “Eyes on the hostage.” As the six soldiers take aim in unison with their pistols, he goes on, “Light up the target area.”
In the next beat, he raises his hands in apparent surrender, his gun along with it.
“Drop the weapon!” one of the Gatekeepers orders.
I roll off the wreckage of the coffee table, only just managing to stifle a grunt at the aggravation to my side. As I snatch up my letter opener and stagger to my feet, the mysterious guy winks at me.
