Assembly Detention Facility
Washington, DC
Sherrie fell back behind Vice President Vance’s chair and crouched, still gripping the pipe. Two men stepped inside, chatting in something that sounded like Tagalog, her training giving her a taste of many common languages so she’d at least recognize them for a debrief. They appeared unarmed.
Too bad.
She surged forward, swinging the pipe, grand slamming the first on the side of the head. He went down, unmoving, probably dead. His partner gasped, dropping the body bag he had been carrying, as Sherrie raised the pipe over her head. He turned to leave when she two-handed it down on the top of his skull, a distinct indentation messing with his hairline.
He fell through the still open door.
Someone shouted.
And an alarm sounded.
Shit!
She quickly confirmed neither had weapons, then tossed the pipe aside. It wouldn’t work on prepared, armed guards. She heard footfalls in the distance as she rushed to the tables filled with the tools of the torture trade. She stuffed half a dozen small knives in her belt, then picked up two good sized ones. She stepped to the door and listened, her trained ear counting four people approaching.
If this is it, it’s going to be one hell of a fight.
She sucked in a deep breath as she tried to calm her nerves, her experience at combat limited. She stepped back behind the chair, not happy with the prospect of being the sucker who had brought a knife to a gunfight. She jabbed one of the large blades into the back of the chair, then drew one of the smaller knives from her belt.
A guard appeared in the door, his weapon raised. She whipped the blade at him and he groaned, his hand reaching for the projectile now embedded in his throat. A second stepped into view, opening fire. Sherrie ducked behind the chair, Vance’s body shaking from the impacts as she drew a second blade. The bullets stopped as his magazine emptied and she popped up, whipping her blade at him as he reloaded. He twisted in time, the sharp implement burying itself in his forearm as she surged around the chair, pulling her second knife from the back. The guard’s eyes bulged as he slapped a new mag into the well, but it was too late.
She shoved the first knife into his belly, twisting, as the second sliced across his throat. Before he had a chance to hit the floor, she released her grip on both blades and disarmed the man, dropping to a knee as she took aim at the doorway.
Two more appeared.
She fired twice, one dropping, the second opening fire, but too high. She fired two more shots.
Then there was silence.
Except for the alarm.
She grabbed a second weapon and stuffed it in her belt, along with several magazines, as she glanced down both ends of what appeared to be a terrifyingly long corridor, considering what she was seeing. Door upon door, suggesting dozens of people might be held here against their will. Yet no more guards were visible.
How long will that last?
She rushed to the next door over and put three shots into the lock, then kicked it open. She rushed inside and dropped to her knees beside Fang. “I got out.”
Fang smiled. “I heard.”
Sherrie pressed the spare weapon in Fang’s hand and placed another magazine on her chest. “Safety’s off, fully loaded. You shoot anything that comes through the door unless it’s me. Got it?”
Fang nodded, her face as pale as Sherrie had ever seen it.
“I’m going to go get help, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can. You just hang in there.”
Fang’s head slumped to the side and Sherrie gasped. She reached for Fang’s neck and felt for a pulse. It was there, but weak.
She’s out of time!