His body had barely hit when the second man suddenly appeared. I saw the gun in his hand in one of those heart-stopping moments when you just know you're not going to get out of the way in time, and flung myself sideways anyway. The retort echoed loudly in the small room and the bullet tore through my arm rather than my heart. Pain bloomed, but I ignored it, unleashing my aura as I hit the floor, striking him with it as hard as I could.
It didn't affect him. He just stood there, gun aimed and expression fierce.
Shock rolled through me. I'd always believed, had always been told, that a werewolf's aura would devour any race. Hell, even the Government believed it, because they'd recently put in place laws that made the use of auras on humans the equivalent of rape. We could use it on each other just fine, just don't touch the precious humans or you'll find yourself thrown in prison.
So why wasn't he affected?
I didn't know, and right now, didn't have the time to wonder. I closed my eyes and forced myself to ignore the beat of pain in my arm, the sweet smell of blood seeping onto the carpet. Let my limbs go lax, as if unconscious.
For several seconds, the man didn't move. His steady breathing stirred the air, as did the scent of him, a weird mix of grease and earthy, heady pine.
I remained as I was, on the carpet and bleeding all over the place, and eventually he cautiously walked toward me. He toed my leg several times, then carefully bent to take my pulse. He was too ready for action, the gun too close to my heart, to react in any way, so I simply lay there as his fingers pressed into my neck. After several seconds, he grunted and rose. He walked across to his partner to check him, then walked back around me to the desk. As he reached for the phone, I kicked his legs out from underneath him. He was spinning, the gun swinging my way, even as he hit the floor. I launched forward, grabbed the gun with one hand and elbowed him hard in the face with the other. Bone and cartilage shattered under the force of the blow, and blood splattered across my face and arm. He made an odd gargling sound, as if he suddenly couldn't breathe, but I ignored it and knocked him unconscious with another punch.
He went limp and tension slithered from me. Instantly, pain bloomed again, becoming a red wave that left me momentarily gasping. The bullet might have been an ordinary one rather than silver, but it still fucking hurt. I quickly shifted shape to stop the bleeding and start the healing. Though the pain muted, it didn't go away.
But right now, I couldn't afford to waste more time on another shift. I had to get the controls for Iktar and get the hell out of here.
I swiped at the sweat on my forehead with my arm, grabbed the gun and shoved it on the tabletop. Then I scrambled back, gripped his belt and hauled him onto his side. Blood began to soak into the carpet and his breathing seemed a little easier. After unclipping the wire from around his neck, I dove deep into his mind and grabbed the code for the security cabinet that held the controllers, then did a quick search for other usable information - which came in the form of the location of the fire exits for the subterranean levels. Surprisingly, this wasn't the tunnel Moss had disappeared into, so where the hell did that go?
The guard didn't know. Actually, he had no awareness of that particular tunnel.
The sharp spikes beginning to drive into my brain suggested I'd better get on with it before said brain exploded under the pressure. An image that made me smile even as the pain grew and my eyes started to water.
I quickly gave him the same false memories as the first man, then re-clipped the wire around his neck and rose. A quick search in the nearby office uncovered the cabinet. After the code had been entered, the draws clicked open. Inside was what looked like game controllers, several bunches of keys, and a notebook that just happened to contain all the codes for the various areas. I found a bag and carefully shoved everything inside, then locked up and headed out. I was at the door when I remembered one vital thing - all the locks to security areas were key and thumbprint coded. I couldn't get out of this room, let alone into the labs or anywhere else, without both.
Fuck.
I glanced at the two men, then the knife the first guard had. There was no choice - and losing a thumb was infinitely better than losing his life.
I carefully lowered my haul then walked over to get the knife. A quick check told me his pulse was a little thready, but otherwise strong. Unconsciousness would hold a little longer. I stole his knife and walked across to the other guard.
The hilt seemed to grow heavier in my sweaty palm, as if the knowledge of what I was about to do weighed down the metal. I touched the second guard's neck lightly, checking his pulse yet again, then took a deep breath to fortify myself and splayed his hand on the floor, thumb well away from the rest of his fingers.
After another breath that didn't do a thing to calm my stomach, I raised the knife and sliced down as hard as I could. There was little resistance. The knife slammed through skin, muscle, and bone as easily as it did the carpet underneath, stopping only when the blade hit the concrete base. The force of the blow echoed up my arm, making my teeth ache. Blood welled from the wound, thick and rich.
My stomach rolled, then rose. Swallowing back bile, I raised his arm so that the flow was lessened, then gingerly picked up the detached digit, wrapped it in some plastic I found on the desk, and headed back to the door. Once through, I ran like hell down the tunnel for the next door. I barely got that one open when my stomach rose again, and this time there was no stopping it.
It wasn't until the very last second that I realized there was someone standing on the other side of that door.
And by then, it was too damn late. Vomiting is never a pleasant experience, but it's even less so when you don't know if the person sidestepping the projectile is friend or foe.
I mean, how can you defend yourself when you're chucking your heart out? It's impossible. Truly impossible.
The only way I knew I was safe was the mere fact that nothing happened in the time I had my head buried in the bushes. It was only when I leaned against the wall to steady myself while I sucked in great gulps of air that I caught the odd scent of earth and air. Iktar. Neither friend nor foe, but somewhere in between.
But he wasn't the only one here. Awareness shimmered across my skin, a warmth that went deeper than mere knowledge of presence, touching me in a way so few did.
Quinn watched and I felt a whole lot safer.
"Here." I dug into the bag and retrieved the notebook, then held out the bag to Iktar. "Your controls and some keys. Knock yourself out."
"Thank you." He accepted the parcel warily, but the glow in his eyes was that of a man who finally saw the ending of a nightmare. "I am in your debt, more than you could ever know."
"No, buddy-boy, you're in the Directorate's debt, and you may live to regret that." Because I had a feeling Jack would like at least one of Iktar's mob on his "new" team - and the old one.
He shrugged. "It cannot be any worse than being held prisoner by a madman, or being killed off one by one in his insane missions."
Except that the Directorate and insane missions often went hand in hand. Hell, why else would Gautier love the job so much?