weapon and run for the safety of anywhere else.
Miles’s voice sounds over a speaker system. “Ready?”
Foster raises a hand and twirls his finger, signaling the start of my imminent “death.” The effects of battle filter through the speakers and sound very real on this side of the protective glass. The lights dim and flash in tandem with various bomb-like reports.
I go into full alert mode, eyes open for my first enemy target. Foster and I circle the room as the previous occupants had. This feels very natural, and not because we stood this way a year ago in Dr. Travista’s lab. But because it is what he and I do.
The men appear around corners with HKs or plasma rifles. In the beginning, they are easy to pick off. My aim, surprisingly, is good. A little rusty maybe from the lack of practice. But a focus takes over that is familiar, though unfamiliar all at once. I block out the sounds, and even Foster—but only to a point, because I do not want to accidentally shoot him. I pay no attention to the small audience or the score of the game.
My adrenaline pumps strong through my veins as the numbers of my enemy increase. My movements have to be quick. Foster is no longer at my back; the two of us separated a while ago. The simulated men begin to swarm, and I shoulder roll through them. They jump out of the way as if I could actually knock them over. When I sweep kicks at their ankles, they fall. They grunt and curse and spit . . . everything I might see in actual combat. Without the pain, of course. They strike me and I feel nothing more than a mild jolt of electricity.
When I finally “die,” I am on the floor, breathless and laughing. Foster yanks me to my feet.
“That felt amazing,” I say, gasping deep for breath.
He rocks me in a hug. “I’m so damn proud of you, Wade. I knew you could do it.”
Raised voices from behind the glass draw our attention, and the second I look over, the lights go up, blinding me. I raise my free hand to hood my eyes just as three men dart into the large space, guns pointed directly at me.
“Put the weapon down,” one yells.
Foster puts himself between me and them, but I do as I am told. My blood runs cold and freezes the layer of sweat coating my body. My vision darkens and the ground seems to tug at me, beckoning with icy fingers.
“What’s the problem, guys?” Foster asks.
His voice forces me back to the bright room and I shake off the abrupt dizziness. Skipping breakfast was probably not the smartest idea.
Clint Reid enters behind the men, and I know he has something to do with this. He, too, has a gun trained on my head. “Mrs. Burke. Kick the gun over and put your hands up.”
Behind Reid, Noah appears, and his nostrils flare with each breath. His face is red. “Put your guns away. You’ve made your goddamn point, Reid. That’s enough.”
The men do as they are asked. Reid is a little more hesitant but finally manages to follow orders.
Foster moves closer to me and I have to peer around him to see. Clearly he is not as trusting of them as I would be. “Someone want to explain?”
“Mrs. Burke is considered high risk and isn’t authorized to carry firearms,” Reid says. “She shouldn’t even be in this area of the hub.”
So that is what they call this place.
Reid continues with a pointed glance at Noah. “If I had my way, she’d be locked away until this matter is cleared up, but—”
“—but she isn’t and won’t,” Noah snaps. He looks at Foster. “Take her out of here.”
Leigh and Miles appear in the doorway and Reid shakes his head at them. “The three of you”—he eyes Foster to include him—“are on notice. One more fuckup like this and I’ll have your asses.”
Noah raises his hands. “Okay, okay. Foster, Wade, out. Bennett, Trumble, you too. Everyone’s dismissed. Except you, Reid.”
Foster leads me by the elbow, his eyes focused on the four men who previously had their guns trained on me. When I pass Noah, he
Miles’s voice sounds over a speaker system. “Ready?”
Foster raises a hand and twirls his finger, signaling the start of my imminent “death.” The effects of battle filter through the speakers and sound very real on this side of the protective glass. The lights dim and flash in tandem with various bomb-like reports.
I go into full alert mode, eyes open for my first enemy target. Foster and I circle the room as the previous occupants had. This feels very natural, and not because we stood this way a year ago in Dr. Travista’s lab. But because it is what he and I do.
The men appear around corners with HKs or plasma rifles. In the beginning, they are easy to pick off. My aim, surprisingly, is good. A little rusty maybe from the lack of practice. But a focus takes over that is familiar, though unfamiliar all at once. I block out the sounds, and even Foster—but only to a point, because I do not want to accidentally shoot him. I pay no attention to the small audience or the score of the game.
My adrenaline pumps strong through my veins as the numbers of my enemy increase. My movements have to be quick. Foster is no longer at my back; the two of us separated a while ago. The simulated men begin to swarm, and I shoulder roll through them. They jump out of the way as if I could actually knock them over. When I sweep kicks at their ankles, they fall. They grunt and curse and spit . . . everything I might see in actual combat. Without the pain, of course. They strike me and I feel nothing more than a mild jolt of electricity.
When I finally “die,” I am on the floor, breathless and laughing. Foster yanks me to my feet.
“That felt amazing,” I say, gasping deep for breath.
He rocks me in a hug. “I’m so damn proud of you, Wade. I knew you could do it.”
Raised voices from behind the glass draw our attention, and the second I look over, the lights go up, blinding me. I raise my free hand to hood my eyes just as three men dart into the large space, guns pointed directly at me.
“Put the weapon down,” one yells.
Foster puts himself between me and them, but I do as I am told. My blood runs cold and freezes the layer of sweat coating my body. My vision darkens and the ground seems to tug at me, beckoning with icy fingers.
“What’s the problem, guys?” Foster asks.
His voice forces me back to the bright room and I shake off the abrupt dizziness. Skipping breakfast was probably not the smartest idea.
Clint Reid enters behind the men, and I know he has something to do with this. He, too, has a gun trained on my head. “Mrs. Burke. Kick the gun over and put your hands up.”
Behind Reid, Noah appears, and his nostrils flare with each breath. His face is red. “Put your guns away. You’ve made your goddamn point, Reid. That’s enough.”
The men do as they are asked. Reid is a little more hesitant but finally manages to follow orders.
Foster moves closer to me and I have to peer around him to see. Clearly he is not as trusting of them as I would be. “Someone want to explain?”
“Mrs. Burke is considered high risk and isn’t authorized to carry firearms,” Reid says. “She shouldn’t even be in this area of the hub.”
So that is what they call this place.
Reid continues with a pointed glance at Noah. “If I had my way, she’d be locked away until this matter is cleared up, but—”
“—but she isn’t and won’t,” Noah snaps. He looks at Foster. “Take her out of here.”
Leigh and Miles appear in the doorway and Reid shakes his head at them. “The three of you”—he eyes Foster to include him—“are on notice. One more fuckup like this and I’ll have your asses.”
Noah raises his hands. “Okay, okay. Foster, Wade, out. Bennett, Trumble, you too. Everyone’s dismissed. Except you, Reid.”
Foster leads me by the elbow, his eyes focused on the four men who previously had their guns trained on me. When I pass Noah, he
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