Masks of Ash by Adrian J. Smith

Author:Adrian J. Smith [Smith , Adrian J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Great Wave Ink Publishing
Published: 2021-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

Twenty-One

Portland, Oregon

LK3 had chosen the location of their safe house well, hidden inside other buildings so it was surrounded. The whole setup reminded Milo of the speakeasy bars he had once seen on a tour in Chicago, rooms hidden inside rooms hidden inside buildings.

After locking Annie into another apartment and making sure her bonds were secure, Milo had spent the next thirty minutes scouting for the best entrance into the safe house. He had to be methodical and, at the same time, careful, but finding a suitable door proved too difficult. He was getting anxious. He had limited time in which to talk the director into his plan.

Milo paused at the edge of the roof he was about to climb onto. Helicopters thumped in the night sky across the river, circling. More than likely hunting The Nameless.

He hauled himself onto the flat roof and, staying on his stomach, slithered across the iron. A row of windows jutted out from the roof, nearly in the exact center. Instinct, honed from years of hunting targets, told him he was right. Inch by inch he slithered, swiveling his head from side to side. LK3 would have cameras up here, hidden amongst the vents and clutter of aerials and microwave receivers. The last thing he wanted was to trigger something and set off alarms. Milo’s biggest concern was to make this look sufficiently like an attack to satisfy Offenheim, and at the same time give himself a chance to talk to the director. He had contemplated radioing her but had ruled that out in case he was being monitored.

In the middle of the roof, he spotted what he was hoping to see: an electrical junction box, about the size of a side table. Like a snake, he made his way to it and broke the lock. Klaxons wailed out immediately.

Dammit!

Foregoing any further attempts at stealth, Milo turned and sprinted toward the row of windows, crashed through feet first and plummeted to the ground. He twisted in midair, trying to get his bearings. Four figures sat at a bank of computers. Their heads turned toward the sound of breaking glass. Faster than he’d anticipated, Director Lisa Omstead and Sofia Ortiz reacted, guns drawn and blazing. All he could do to keep from being hit was to keep moving. He spun in dizzying circles to the right.

Bullets chipped the concrete around him, the flecks bit into his flesh.

“Wait! It’s me, Milo,” he said, backpedaling until he crashed through a door.

More rounds hit the concrete and wood around him. Either Lisa and Sofia hadn’t heard him or didn’t care because they kept firing.

Milo found himself in a communal dining room and kept running, down some stairs and onto the floor of an old factory. Perfect. He’d wanted open space with room to move, to avoid them, if necessary, until he could get them to talk.

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