Winter didn't slam the door.
He didn't curse or shout or punch holes in the wall, even though the violent tremor in his fingers begged for an outlet. No — he moved in almost slow motion, lethal and silent, slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, tightening the straps on the rifle across his back.
His sidearm kissed his hip, two extra mags tucked into his vest.
His breath came in short bursts, like it had to fight its way past the ice in his chest.
They were gone.
Taken.
And someone was going to pay in blood.
Winter didn't look back as he marched out of the room. His boots hit the metal floor.
He didn't even make it past the hallway before the first alert blared overhead.
"Attention all residents. Sector 2 is entering precautionary lockdown. Please return to your assigned living quarters immediately. This is not a drill."
Winter froze.
His head lifted slowly to the speaker above him. He blinked once.
A laugh — dry and humourless — escaped his lips.
Of course.
