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Authors: C. E. Martin
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Alcatraz?”
Back at Detachment 1039's Command Center, where everyone had been watching the live feed from Victor and Kenslir’s tactical visor’s, Josie was wondering the same thing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Laura Olson had been so close to achieving her dreams the night she was killed. The twenty-five year old had put herself through college and medical school and was about to begin her residency at a local hospital. Then Mark Kenslir came into her life.
Laura worked at a local all-night diner not far from the campus. Few people came in so late—mainly students who had stayed up doing research. It was a great place to relax and do some reading.
The cook had already gone home that fateful night, leaving Laura to lock up. She’d been taking her time doing so, giving the diner one last, really good cleaning before she left town for her residency. She would miss the old place and its Midwest charm.
The bells over the door clanged loudly—which was odd since Laura had already locked up. And since the bells never rang that loudly. She left the kitchen and walked out into the dining area.
That’s when she saw him.
He had long, shoulder length blonde hair and a thin face. He was wearing a faded blue denim jacket that matched his jeans and cowboy boots. He had a t-shirt on under the jacket, but Laura couldn’t read what was on it. The shirt was covered in blood.
“Help me...” the blonde haired man had said, then promptly collapsed to the floor.
Laura ran over, already assessing the situation. She’d seen a hole in the man’s chest, just above his heart. He’s been shot or stabbed—she couldn’t tell.
Despite being an inch taller than her, the man was not very heavy. Laura lifted his shoulders and pulled him up against the front counter, propping him up there. She quickly checked for a pulse. There was none. But he was still breathing.
“Step away from the hippy,” a stern voice said behind her.
Laura turned around, surprised.
Standing in the doorway of the diner was a large man, well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders. He had jet black hair, cropped close to his head in a military-like flattop. He had dark green, almost black eyes. He wore black and green striped-camouflage pants and shirt—a military uniform. And he was pointing a large handgun at Laura.
The red head stood quickly, turning her back to the injured blonde man. She shielded him with her body. “Don’t shoot!”
“Miss, you need to step away from him, please,” the large man said. He kept the pistol aimed, not at Laura, but at the man behind her.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Laura said. “But you are not shooting this man.”
Mark Kenslir gritted his teeth as he weighed his options.
Telling the girl the truth was out of the question. And it would take too long.
At this range, he could fire a round through her leg and hit the man in the heart, finishing him off. But there was a chance he’d hit the girl’s femoral artery and give her far more than a flesh wound.
His last option was to knock her aside, shove the barrel of his gun in his target’s mouth and blow his brains out. Which would give him enough time to cut out the monster’s heart.
Kenslir didn’t get a chance to enact any of his plans. The man on the floor behind Laura suddenly sprang to his feet and grabbed her by the neck.
“Who said I’m a man?” blonde hair whispered into her ear.
Laura could feel long nails, almost clawlike, at her throat.
“Put down your gun, soldier boy, or I’ll rip out the girl’s throat.”
Kenslir fired his pistol one time.
Laura flinched at the flash and report of the pistol, her startled movement a split second after a bullet from the pistol cored through her blonde attacker’s right eye.
The blonde haired man screamed in pain and released his grip on the girl, then shoved her forward against Kenslir.
Kenslir caught the girl, then swung her around behind him, shielding her with
Back at Detachment 1039's Command Center, where everyone had been watching the live feed from Victor and Kenslir’s tactical visor’s, Josie was wondering the same thing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Laura Olson had been so close to achieving her dreams the night she was killed. The twenty-five year old had put herself through college and medical school and was about to begin her residency at a local hospital. Then Mark Kenslir came into her life.
Laura worked at a local all-night diner not far from the campus. Few people came in so late—mainly students who had stayed up doing research. It was a great place to relax and do some reading.
The cook had already gone home that fateful night, leaving Laura to lock up. She’d been taking her time doing so, giving the diner one last, really good cleaning before she left town for her residency. She would miss the old place and its Midwest charm.
The bells over the door clanged loudly—which was odd since Laura had already locked up. And since the bells never rang that loudly. She left the kitchen and walked out into the dining area.
That’s when she saw him.
He had long, shoulder length blonde hair and a thin face. He was wearing a faded blue denim jacket that matched his jeans and cowboy boots. He had a t-shirt on under the jacket, but Laura couldn’t read what was on it. The shirt was covered in blood.
“Help me...” the blonde haired man had said, then promptly collapsed to the floor.
Laura ran over, already assessing the situation. She’d seen a hole in the man’s chest, just above his heart. He’s been shot or stabbed—she couldn’t tell.
Despite being an inch taller than her, the man was not very heavy. Laura lifted his shoulders and pulled him up against the front counter, propping him up there. She quickly checked for a pulse. There was none. But he was still breathing.
“Step away from the hippy,” a stern voice said behind her.
Laura turned around, surprised.
Standing in the doorway of the diner was a large man, well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders. He had jet black hair, cropped close to his head in a military-like flattop. He had dark green, almost black eyes. He wore black and green striped-camouflage pants and shirt—a military uniform. And he was pointing a large handgun at Laura.
The red head stood quickly, turning her back to the injured blonde man. She shielded him with her body. “Don’t shoot!”
“Miss, you need to step away from him, please,” the large man said. He kept the pistol aimed, not at Laura, but at the man behind her.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Laura said. “But you are not shooting this man.”
Mark Kenslir gritted his teeth as he weighed his options.
Telling the girl the truth was out of the question. And it would take too long.
At this range, he could fire a round through her leg and hit the man in the heart, finishing him off. But there was a chance he’d hit the girl’s femoral artery and give her far more than a flesh wound.
His last option was to knock her aside, shove the barrel of his gun in his target’s mouth and blow his brains out. Which would give him enough time to cut out the monster’s heart.
Kenslir didn’t get a chance to enact any of his plans. The man on the floor behind Laura suddenly sprang to his feet and grabbed her by the neck.
“Who said I’m a man?” blonde hair whispered into her ear.
Laura could feel long nails, almost clawlike, at her throat.
“Put down your gun, soldier boy, or I’ll rip out the girl’s throat.”
Kenslir fired his pistol one time.
Laura flinched at the flash and report of the pistol, her startled movement a split second after a bullet from the pistol cored through her blonde attacker’s right eye.
The blonde haired man screamed in pain and released his grip on the girl, then shoved her forward against Kenslir.
Kenslir caught the girl, then swung her around behind him, shielding her with
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