Page 263 of Golden Eagle

Not a chainsaw – aroar.

The door behind her flew open with a crash.

She dropped and whirled on instinct, gun up, and saw black-clad Institute foot soldiers. Row after row, all bottle-necked together, armored shoulder pads clacking together as they fought to get through the narrow doorway.

For a terrible, slow-motion moment, she saw light glinting off the helmets of the ones farther back, and farther behindthat. They were hopelessly, helplessly outmatched in every way, all armed, two gun muzzles pointed right at her, and all she had was one nine-millimeter with silver fucking bullets in it.

She had a split second to wish she’d taken the time to get some sort of last I-love-you to her parents; that she’d kissed Lanny more ferociously back at the hotel.

And then one of the wheeled chairs flew threw the air and crashed into the first two soldiers coming in.

It didn’t slow them down much, but enough.

While Trina was gaping, a hand grabbed her arm, and dragged her backward. Someone stepped in front of her – Mia, it was Mia, MiaTalbot. Val’s mate. When the first shot fired, Mia angled her body, and took it in her shoulder. She let out a soft grunt, an expulsion of breath, too shocked and pained to scream – Trina had seen that a lot, in her line of work. People didn’t scream when they were shot; instead, they deflated, like the bullet had put a hole in them and the life had started rushing out, the ability to scream and panic along with it.

The shot turned into a volley.

For a split-second, one she wasn’t proud of, Trina whited out. Her mind went totally blank with panic. She’d gone through a range of exercises, shuffling as part of a team through abandoned buildings, wearing flak vests, shooting at paper targets that sprang up on hydraulics. Fake drug raids; simulated active shooter situations.

She’d never gone through a simulation like this: a dozen armed soldiers bearing down on her.

A friend’s girlfriend standing in front of her, taking bullets for her.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

But the Baskin in her finally took hold, and she scrambled back, motioning to the others, shoving rolling chairs out of the way.

She saw that Much had dropped his bow and produced a gun, was returning fire, using a turned-around chair as a shield.

She caught Kolya’s gaze. “We have to flip the table.”

He nodded.

“Jamie.” When he glanced her way, she slid him her gun under the table. He caught it with another nod, and joined Much in firing back. They were drawing attention away from Mia, keeping the soldiers logjammed in the doorway. But they would push through, soon; bull their way in, despite taking fire. And Mia…

She couldn’t think about that yet. One thing at a time.

The table was the kind composed of two segments, connected and locked in the middle. By the time she had it unlocked – gunshots crack-crack-cracked in the background, the incoming breeze doing nothing to alleviate the ear-piercing echo of them – Kolya was beside her. They separated the two halves, and then together heaved it over onto its side.

Much and Jamie joined them; Trina had the absurd thought that they were in a trench, in the midst of a battlefield.

Well, theywere.

Much passed her his gun. “Here.” Pulled something else from his pocket, a canister. One with a pin, that he pulled, and then lobbed toward the door.

Trina got off one shot – right through the thigh of a soldier as they started to swarm in – before thick, green smoke billowed up from the cannister. It curled, and writhed, and gave just enough cover for Much to vault over the table and go after Mia – who lay in a heap, blood pooling out around her on the industrial grade carpet.

~*~

Severin heard the door lock behind him, and whirled. Through the window, he saw Dante and Alexei sink down to their knees, and topple over, facing one another, hands touching. Like lovers – he knew that word, and that they were. But it struck him as a terribly vulnerable position here, now, as Gustav and two of his lackies strode toward them.

Severin reached inside himself for fire. It didn’t matter that the doors were metal – some part of them would melt.

But–

“LC-7!” someone cried in a glad voice.

He turned his head, fingertips crackling, sparking, and saw one of his handlers, Dr. Hastings, approaching, lab coat flaring out behind her as she hurried, two orderlies in scrubs tagging along with obvious reluctance.

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