Page 11 of Psycho Pack

Nine beads, pause.

An old habit resurfacing in crisis.

How disturbing.

I thought I was beyond this.

Chapter

Three

THANE

Chaos is waiting for us the moment we reach the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. Guards everywhere, swarming like hornets. Medical staff running back and forth from room to room, collecting the most important pieces of their sordid work.

Broken vials and jars littering the cracking floor.

Organs spilled out.

Patients from upstairs running amok, biting, laughing.

A naked patient standing on a desk with arms outstretched above his head, hips gyrating and erect dick windmilling, whooping in triumph with a doctor's freshly decapitated head impaled on the end of his IV pole like a trophy on a spear.

I step over the twitching corpse the head once belonged to, boots sliding in the spreading pool of blood. My stolen uniform is already soaked crimson, but it doesn't matter now. Our cover's long since blown.

Another guard runs past without sparing us a glance, too focused on getting away from an escaped patient who's cackling madly as he sprints naked after him, trailing IV tubes behind him and wielding a grenade.

Nope.

Not a grenade.

A handful of shit.

Plague gags audibly and looks like he'd prefer a grenade, but this is perfect. In all this chaos, we blend right in.

"This way," I mutter, leading us toward the stairwell that descends into the basement levels. The floor beneath our feet groans with each step, the whole building shuddering like it's giving birth to hell.

We make it halfway down the corridor before a squad of guards notices us. Their leader steps forward, rifle raised. "Stop! This area is off limits. The lower levels are compromised."

I keep walking, Whiskey and Plague falling into step beside me. The guard's finger tightens on his trigger.

"I said stop! The structure is failing. No one goes down?—"

My fist connects with his throat, crushing his windpipe before he can finish. As he drops, gagging, the other guards snap into action. Gunfire erupts, bullets whizzing past my head.

I dive behind an overturned gurney, drawing my concealed blade. Next to me, Whiskey tosses Valek's unconscious form aside and charges the nearest guard like a freight train. The guard's rifle cracks in half as Whiskey slams him into the wall.

Plague moves like a shadow, appearing behind another guard. His blade flashes once, opening the man's throat in a spray of arterial blood. The guard clutches his neck, eyes wide with shock as he crumples.

A bullet grazes my arm. I roll out from cover, coming up inside the shooter's guard. My knife slides between his ribs, finding his heart. He gasps, blood bubbling from his lips as I twist the blade. Should probably just grab one of these damn guns, but the corridor's too fucking narrow to shoot without bullets ricocheting.

And so far, knives and knuckles are doing the goddamned job.

More guards pour in from adjoining corridors, drawn by the gunfire. Whiskey roars as he tears through them, his massive frame absorbing hits that would drop a normal man. He grabs one guard by the head and smashes his face repeatedly into a wall until it's pulp.

Plague dances through the chaos, every movement precise and lethal. His stolen lab coat billows behind him as he spins, blades flickering out to open throats and sever arteries. He's always been the most efficient killer among us.

Flashy bastard.

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