spinning across the carpet as he was flung back into his office. Up in an instant, Franks turned to meet the threat. The partition was tossed aside, revealing what appeared to be a normal man. Early twenties, Hispanic, six foot one, one eighty, dressed in a black suit, but from the way he was ignoring several grisly rifle wounds to the chest, probably not a human. Franks launched himself forward, swinging for the man’s head.
The attack was intercepted by a raised forearm. Bones collided, and Franks came away with one arm stinging.
That was unusual.
Without any hesitation, Franks attacked with everything he had. It was a blur of fists, elbows, and knees. The man slid back across the carpet, taking the pounding, but protecting his head and torso. Then he countered, hands flashing back and forth with incredible speed. Franks barely managed to swat them aside. Dozens of blows were exchanged in a matter of seconds. A ridged hand that made the air whistle ripped a red line across Franks’ forehead.
Another. Franks pulled back, trying to save his eyes, but his back hit the wall. Fingers cut through his cheek. Not claws. Fingers. Franks swung, but the man ducked, and Franks hit nothing but air. His opponent came right back up and hooked a fist into Franks’ abdomen. The blow lifted him off the ground. Hands landed on his shoulders and Franks was jerked forward, spun around, and tossed hard into a nearby desk.
The man was coming after him.
His opponent stepped onto the fallen cube wall, so Franks kicked it out from under him. They both came up at the same time, but Franks had a head start and that was all it took. He slammed one fist into the man’s face, and then Franks was hitting him with blows that would break cinder blocks. And he knew that for a fact because he practiced on cinder blocks. His opponent made the smallest mistake, dropping one hand a bit too late, and Franks drove a quick jab into his mouth. A human jaw would have exploded. He turned a bit, and Franks snap-kicked him in the stomach. The shot would have staggered a vampire.
The man took a single step back and blinked.
“Hmmm . . .” Franks didn’t like that one bit. He could feel the man’s body heat, so he wasn’t a vampire, and he certainly didn’t fight with the disorganized savagery expected of a lycanthrope, but since he’d heard Strayhorn picking up the Colt Commando, this mystery could wait until the autopsy. Franks stepped to the side. “Shoot.”
Strayhorn opened up. The Colt was still on full auto. The thirty-round magazine was only half full but he put almost all of those into his target’s upper chest before the last few climbed up and to the right to shatter the far windows. The attacker stumbled back as his torso erupted into bloody chunks, but he still wouldn’t fall over. Instead he crashed against a desk and used that to steady himself. Even with around a dozen gaping wounds, he snarled defiantly at Franks.
“There’s more mags in the wall,” Franks said as he started toward the creature that had dared to trash his office. Apparently whatever it was did require blood pressure to continue operating, because the attack was slower this time, and Franks leaned back as a fist zipped past his chin. Franks slammed a massive hook into the side of the man’s skull. The impact reverberated across the room, but he still didn’t go down. Franks went to work on him, fists hammering like pistons, each impact hard enough to rupture organs. Blood flew from the bullet holes each time Franks hit him.
The man closed, trying to stop the pummeling. He tried to lock up on Franks’ arms, and for several seconds they went back and forth, blocking and twisting, trying for a hold or enough leverage to break a limb. There were massive exit wounds in the man’s back. Blood was everywhere, which was making it difficult to get a good grip. The level of dedication was impressive, but when he clutched the man’s ear and ripped it off the side of
The attack was intercepted by a raised forearm. Bones collided, and Franks came away with one arm stinging.
That was unusual.
Without any hesitation, Franks attacked with everything he had. It was a blur of fists, elbows, and knees. The man slid back across the carpet, taking the pounding, but protecting his head and torso. Then he countered, hands flashing back and forth with incredible speed. Franks barely managed to swat them aside. Dozens of blows were exchanged in a matter of seconds. A ridged hand that made the air whistle ripped a red line across Franks’ forehead.
Another. Franks pulled back, trying to save his eyes, but his back hit the wall. Fingers cut through his cheek. Not claws. Fingers. Franks swung, but the man ducked, and Franks hit nothing but air. His opponent came right back up and hooked a fist into Franks’ abdomen. The blow lifted him off the ground. Hands landed on his shoulders and Franks was jerked forward, spun around, and tossed hard into a nearby desk.
The man was coming after him.
His opponent stepped onto the fallen cube wall, so Franks kicked it out from under him. They both came up at the same time, but Franks had a head start and that was all it took. He slammed one fist into the man’s face, and then Franks was hitting him with blows that would break cinder blocks. And he knew that for a fact because he practiced on cinder blocks. His opponent made the smallest mistake, dropping one hand a bit too late, and Franks drove a quick jab into his mouth. A human jaw would have exploded. He turned a bit, and Franks snap-kicked him in the stomach. The shot would have staggered a vampire.
The man took a single step back and blinked.
“Hmmm . . .” Franks didn’t like that one bit. He could feel the man’s body heat, so he wasn’t a vampire, and he certainly didn’t fight with the disorganized savagery expected of a lycanthrope, but since he’d heard Strayhorn picking up the Colt Commando, this mystery could wait until the autopsy. Franks stepped to the side. “Shoot.”
Strayhorn opened up. The Colt was still on full auto. The thirty-round magazine was only half full but he put almost all of those into his target’s upper chest before the last few climbed up and to the right to shatter the far windows. The attacker stumbled back as his torso erupted into bloody chunks, but he still wouldn’t fall over. Instead he crashed against a desk and used that to steady himself. Even with around a dozen gaping wounds, he snarled defiantly at Franks.
“There’s more mags in the wall,” Franks said as he started toward the creature that had dared to trash his office. Apparently whatever it was did require blood pressure to continue operating, because the attack was slower this time, and Franks leaned back as a fist zipped past his chin. Franks slammed a massive hook into the side of the man’s skull. The impact reverberated across the room, but he still didn’t go down. Franks went to work on him, fists hammering like pistons, each impact hard enough to rupture organs. Blood flew from the bullet holes each time Franks hit him.
The man closed, trying to stop the pummeling. He tried to lock up on Franks’ arms, and for several seconds they went back and forth, blocking and twisting, trying for a hold or enough leverage to break a limb. There were massive exit wounds in the man’s back. Blood was everywhere, which was making it difficult to get a good grip. The level of dedication was impressive, but when he clutched the man’s ear and ripped it off the side of
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