Lincoln Cole

The revolver thundered in the courtyard below. Argus Wade could taste bile in his throat. It tasted like jealousy.

Richard rubbed absently at the stubble on his jaw, staring out the windshield at the gathered traffic. Seeing none of it.    His mind was on autopilot stuck replaying one event nearly thirty years ago over and over again.

“I’m cold.” “We won’t be in here for much longer. Stop fidgeting.” “And it’s dark.”

Everything happened quickly after that. When the team reached the armory, they were surrounded by quartermasters who fitted them out with all the tactical equipment they would ever need to wage a small war. Rifles, sidearms, specialty weapons and explosives.

The door slid open, and several officers sauntered into the mess hall. They all walked with an air of overzealous importance as they joined the rest of the enlisted soldiers. It was something Marcus was used to, and he barely noticed.

By the time Marcus made it back onto the Endeavor, everything was in full and frantic motion. Soldiers, mechanics, and officers ran up and down the halls, and there was a life and energy in the air he had never experienced.

“Why do we always get the—” “Don’t even think about finishing that statement,” Rylee warned. Marcus couldn’t see her face behind the mask of her vac suit, but he could imagine the expression of stern disapproval he’d seen a thousand times before.

Thunder rumbled outside the soccer stadium: a deep roar as storm clouds gathered in strength, the prelude to a ferocious storm.

“What the hell does that mean?” Another gun barked, this time from behind them near the stairwell. Abigail pushed Haatim farther into their hiding space, rounding a corner out of sight of the stairwell. She leaned over the top and fired back, forcing their pursuer to retreat.