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The man wearing a green windbreaker stifled agonized winces as he leaned back against the front of a broken desk. The faded, weakened wood had sloppy holes bored into it by time’s inevitable decay. He gingerly peeled the left side of his jacket off of the large red stain on his white shirt. Two bullets had entered his side and hit his ribs, creating a mangled perforation, with company three inches below it. Someone had nearly killed him as he dove for cover. The damaged slugs were still inside his body, likely having punctured internal organs after bouncing off of cartilage.
The hit man could tell that death was imminent. He observed his location, which was covered with inanimate objects that were just as useless as the desk against his back. Then he noticed the bloody trail leading to his improvised safety, and his weapon close to the open door. Ignoring the jarring gunfire and destruction, he rolled onto his belly and cautiously crawled toward his only chance of survival. He was too incoherent to notice when the direction of the shooting changed.
The last man who arrived at the battleground located the conflict with more difficulty than he expected. He trained his rifle on his environment as his footsteps carried him along a meandering route. His dark green eyes glowed in the enveloping darkness. Expertise and years of training were conveyed through his body language. He could tell that he was nearing his destination as he circled around the complex hallways. The snaking twists and turns brought him into view of a long-haired man in a silver suit, who sprinted down a long corridor.
Bill lead the way through the darkened alcoves of the warehouse to the killers. Matt followed him, and Brian was at the back of the trio. They were getting close to their destination, since the incessant gunfire got louder every second. When they could tell that the mayhem was around the next corner, they stopped, exchanged determined glances, and double-checked their weapons. Anticipation and bloodlust shone through their eyes as they prepared to launch into the fray. After each man nodded at his companions, they stepped into the hallway as one. Their reflexes were razor-sharp, their bodies tuned in to hostile precision. They immersed themselves in the chaos.
As the man in a silver suit approached the violence, it took him a second to understand what was going on. When he was far away, he saw unfamiliar gunmen approaching two rooms on opposite sides of the hallway, littering them with bullets. Shells clinked loudly as they fell to the wooden floor. The man raised his rifle. But before he squeezed the trigger, slugs rained down on the mercenaries from the room to their left.
After the surprise of their attack subsided, Michael and John jumped behind their flimsy cover, having swiftly killed many enemies. The survivors swung their weapons toward the lethal hailstorm of hot metal. This unexpected assault lasted only a second, and the two men concealed themselves before a single shot was returned.
Bullets exploded through the fragmented wooden boxes, barely missing their targets. The vastly outnumbered assassins prepared for one final attempt to break through the ranks, knowing that death was almost inevitable.
The mercenaries closed in on John and Michael, about put down the boisterous pests. Their fury was palpable as they rushed to their resilient enemies, salivating to avenge their dead partners. Adrenaline surged through their veins like gasoline in a diesel engine as they bombarded the boxes with blazing death.
Preparing to return fire, the brunette woman checked her gun. She was eager to attack. Planning to spring on the killers the way a spider leaps out of the void and overcomes a naïve fly, she released her inhibitions, rushing into the hallway. She was ready for anything.