10

"Absolutely out of the question," Qui says grimly. "You've been out of the field too long."

Bouchard scoffs. "What's the worst that could happen, Qui? You wanted to run right in, guns blazing. 'Kill 'em all and let Caine sort the dead,' right? At worst, Mekuztli will fail and you'll get your wish. If not, we can gut Ward before he knows what hit him."

You give Bouchard the side-eye. "You watch. I may not have been in the field for years, but I'm not a pushover. You just get the others ready. Give me a five minute head start, then come in through the door."

Next

Despite your bravado, you're slightly concerned about your abilities, but as you dig your fingers into the crumbling fissure in the brick wall, your expertise comes rushing back to you, rendering your worries laughable as you scale the edifice like a spider, silent and foreboding. When you reach the window, you latch tightly beneath it, listening for footsteps. When none approach, you risk glancing over the sill. The factory is poorly lit, likely to keep the location hidden, but you have little difficulty picking out the guard stationed on the catwalk. You study his movements, getting a feel for where he's going to go next and how quickly he can access the rifle strapped around his chest. Something about him feels…off. Sloppy. You narrow your eyes and watch closely, pleased with what you see. Your job just got a whole lot easier—you're almost certain that your enemy is mortal.

The sentry turns his back on you. Leaving no time to second-guess yourself, you leap over the window, landing silently on the catwalk with padded feet. Not so much as a twitch from your mark. You move forward silently, melding with the shadows along the wall until you're directly behind the man—you can sense the mortal blood pulsing in his veins. You reach out and wrap an arm around his neck, your other hand covering his mouth to prevent a warning scream. He struggles and almost frees himself, but your supernatural strength prevails over the mortal's training and he finally goes limp in your arms. You slowly ease the body to the metal slats of the catwalk as your eyes dart from side to side. You can't let your nerves get to you. One step at a time. Below, you see the dim outline of Qui leading the others along the opposite wall.

A sharp electrical crackle is the only warning you have before dozens of floodlights blaze to life, immediately followed by an ear-splitting clatter of gunfire as men and women swathed entirely in black emerge from all corners of the factory. You watch in horror as Qui's band dashes for the shelter of an old stairwell, dust and chips of brick exploding in violent fractures all around them.

Next