Children of the Cull by Cavan Scott

with a flick of a switch.
    “This way,” I said, leading our little band along the corridor. The hub was near the main entrance, not far away—I hoped.
    Reaching the end of the passage, we slowed, peering around the corner. No one there. Good. I beckoned the rest on, thankful that even Fenton seemed to be keeping his mouth shut for once. For all we knew we were alone in the building, but there was no point taking chances.
    Another corner, another corridor. Nearly there. It was just around this bend and—
    I slid to a halt, darting back around the corner I’d been about to take. Brennan stopped short, mouthing a silent What?
    Guards , I mouthed back, raising two fingers.
    Had they spotted me?
    They couldn’t have. There were no footsteps, no shouts.
    I looked around the corner again, staying close to the wall. They were standing with their backs to me, beside what should be Ops. Two guards a-guarding—and they didn’t stand a chance.
    I stepped back, Brennan indicating for Garret to take position. Garret nodded, flattening his back against the wall, rifle up and primed. Then he swung himself around, and sprayed the corridor. There was a cry and Garret pulled back, at least one of the guards returning fire, the plaster on the corner of the wall beside Garret disintegrating.
    “One went down,” Garret hissed, the most I’d heard him say. “I know he did.”
    The bullets stopped, our assailant waiting for us to make a move. Garret swung around again, squeezing his trigger.
    “He’s in the doorway,” he reported, ducking as the guard retaliated.
    “The other?” I asked.
    “Out of the game.”
    “Move in,” Brennan ordered and Garret twisted into the corner, his gun barking. There was a cry and Garret disappeared from sight. Curtis was straight after him, gun raised, and after checking around the corner, Brennan indicated for us to follow.
    The first guard was on the floor, a ragged hole in the side of his neck. The second was slouched on the floor, clutching a wound in his shoulder, blood pumping between his gloved fingers.
    Fenton took one look at the stricken guard, and put him down.
    “What did you do that for?” I snarled. “He could have told us how many men they have left.”
    Fenton shrugged. “There’s one less now.”
    “Next time you wait for the order,” Brennan berated him as I looked around. Yeah, this was the place, and that was the Ops centre. I crossed to the door, flattening myself against the wood. P99 in one hand, I wrapped my fingers around the door handle. It turned, but was locked.
    There was a cry from inside. Short, but distinct, as if someone had clapped a hand over their own mouth to shut themselves up. Brennan motioned for Curtis to bring the battering ram over and the man mountain obliged, hefting the heavy cylinder by himself. This lock offered little in the way of resistance, shattering on first impact, but the door smacked into something. They’d barricaded themselves in. Curtis dropped the battering ram to the side, putting his not insubstantial shoulder to the door. There was a scrape of wood against the floor and the door opened a fraction, enough for Curtis to get his hand into the gap to press against the wall.
    Big mistake. Something clanged hard on the back of his hand, and Curtis roared in pain. He yanked his hand back, as Beck raised her gun and fired calmly into the door itself, the wood splintering.
    There was a whimper from inside and Beck took her foot to the door. It shifted more and she was in, her gun sweeping up.
    I didn’t wait for Brennan to give me permission to squeeze through the gap. On the other side of the door, a Chinese guy cowered beneath a desk. He was shaking where he sat, nostrils flaring, a fire-extinguisher grasped to him like a shield.
    “Get out of there,” I ordered, keeping him firmly within my sights as the others followed me in, Garrett shoving the bookcase barricade out of the way.
    “D-don’t shoot,” the kid stammered,