Through the open door, the blinding glare of the tarmac looked like a white-hot desert. Ryan was a dark blur, sprinting in a chaotic, zigzagging pattern. He wasn’t running like a parade-ground soldier; he was running like a desperate animal.
Three hundred yards of open ground lay between Building 32 and the base of the North Annex comms tower.
Crack.
The supersonic snap of a sniper rifle echoed off the concrete. A plume of asphalt exploded two feet behind Ryan’s heels.
Crack. Crack.
“Cover him!” Lucas roared. He had managed to find a shard of broken glass from a shattered window and was desperately sawing at his zip-ties.
I grabbed Mercer’s fallen rifle with my bloody right hand. I couldn’t shoulder it properly, so I rested the barrel on the doorframe, wedging it in tight. I didn’t have a scope, just iron sights, but I saw the muzzle flash from the roof of a distant supply warehouse.
