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Invite onlyThere was stealth and then there was stealth. One did not beget the other. Coming in just above 6’3 on a good hair day made it hard for Bjorn to go unnoticed at the best of times, but this rang even truer at the worst of times.
Seamlessly moving across ground, walls and ceiling had its advantages, though forgoing gravity wasn’t ideal when one failed to properly close one’s knapsack and two heavy bars of silver found their way out in order to come to a clunking stop across the reception desk below. Bjorn had been so close to the exit too.
“****.”
The sparse minimalistic setting of the office lobby did little to mask the disturbance’s provenance, but it was the telepath’s tongue that betrayed his position overhead and immediately drew the guards’ attention to the ceiling. Whatever reprieve Bjorn might have had, those few seconds in which he might have taken advantage of their momentary confusion to stealthy dispatch at least one of them and retrieve a smoke bomb fizzled out of existence, and he found himself pinned by four rounded eyes and staring down the barrel of two guns.
A moving target was harder to hit than a stationary one and so Bjorn did drop to the ground before the first bullet could be fired, and in doing so the partial opening of his knapsack gave way to a number of other items he had collected throughout the night.
“Well now that’s just embarrassing,” he tutted, steady gaze flitting from one guard to the other.
“Hands where I can see them!”
“Yeah, fair enough,” Bjorn responded, flashing both palms before dropping to the floor. The first bullet whizzed past his shoulder and the second went wide overhead, no doubt a result of the barrage of thoughts thrown at the seemingly more seasoned guard.
“10-82 Bravo. 10-30 Alpha.”
Fingers splayed against the carpet, the vampire pushed himself up into a handstand and planted both soles into the first guard’s sternum, catching a bullet to the thigh for his troubles as the movement dislodged the man’s hold on the firing weapon. Bjorn heard the crunch of bones as he springboarded off the falling guard’s chest and cringed at the sound. Immediately he threw himself out the way of the second guard’s fusillade.
6.
“10-20.”
“484 Macquairie Street!”
5.
“****! Delaney, you hear me?”
It hadn’t been Bjorn’s intention to grievously injure anyone this evening.
4.
“10-9.”
“484! Macquarie Street! Twelfth floor.”
It hadn’t been his intention to damage the property itself, just its locks.
“10-17.”
3.
Minimalist design really provided **** cover.
“Delaney! ****! 10-68 Alpha.”
“10-9.”
2—
“Man down. 10-68 Alpha!”
The shield Bjorn dropped to counteract the limp helped avoid the bullets, though he wasn’t about to test his theory by closing the distance between them to retrieve a bomb from the knapsack. It was too late for it to be of much use.
—1.
“10-17.”
The 10mm had its advantages over other Glocks but an extra dozen bullets wasn’t one of them. The guard’s moment of indecision between reloading and reaching for his partner’s weapon at his feet gave the vampire enough time to unholster and take aim.
“Sorry, dude.”
Bjorn didn’t waste bullets.
The second body dropped as inelegantly as the first.
It wasn’t a kill shot, but where he’d refused to waste two bullets for a triple tap, Bjorn delivered with two clean headshots before holstering the weapon and taking stock of the two dead bodies. It was as much insurance as it was mercy, the experience of drowning in one’s blood one he’d lived through enough times to extend some measure of clemency.
“10-23.”
“****.”
Returning the silver bars and motion sensors to his knapsack, and ensuring this time he fully closed the ******* thing, Bjorn made his way out the lobby’s double doors and took a left, limping towards the staircase. With backup already here his options were far and few in between, though making his way up all those flights of stairs with a bullet nestling in his hamstring was almost as daunting as taking down actual cops twelve stories below.
Bjorn was on the twenty-third floor, the sound of ascending law enforcement not nearly far enough behind him, when it hit him. A fight might be inevitable. It was the blood trail, no doubt, which had led some to follow in his steps.
You still up in Elmworth?
Seamlessly moving across ground, walls and ceiling had its advantages, though forgoing gravity wasn’t ideal when one failed to properly close one’s knapsack and two heavy bars of silver found their way out in order to come to a clunking stop across the reception desk below. Bjorn had been so close to the exit too.
“****.”
The sparse minimalistic setting of the office lobby did little to mask the disturbance’s provenance, but it was the telepath’s tongue that betrayed his position overhead and immediately drew the guards’ attention to the ceiling. Whatever reprieve Bjorn might have had, those few seconds in which he might have taken advantage of their momentary confusion to stealthy dispatch at least one of them and retrieve a smoke bomb fizzled out of existence, and he found himself pinned by four rounded eyes and staring down the barrel of two guns.
A moving target was harder to hit than a stationary one and so Bjorn did drop to the ground before the first bullet could be fired, and in doing so the partial opening of his knapsack gave way to a number of other items he had collected throughout the night.
“Well now that’s just embarrassing,” he tutted, steady gaze flitting from one guard to the other.
“Hands where I can see them!”
“Yeah, fair enough,” Bjorn responded, flashing both palms before dropping to the floor. The first bullet whizzed past his shoulder and the second went wide overhead, no doubt a result of the barrage of thoughts thrown at the seemingly more seasoned guard.
“10-82 Bravo. 10-30 Alpha.”
Fingers splayed against the carpet, the vampire pushed himself up into a handstand and planted both soles into the first guard’s sternum, catching a bullet to the thigh for his troubles as the movement dislodged the man’s hold on the firing weapon. Bjorn heard the crunch of bones as he springboarded off the falling guard’s chest and cringed at the sound. Immediately he threw himself out the way of the second guard’s fusillade.
6.
“10-20.”
“484 Macquairie Street!”
5.
“****! Delaney, you hear me?”
It hadn’t been Bjorn’s intention to grievously injure anyone this evening.
4.
“10-9.”
“484! Macquarie Street! Twelfth floor.”
It hadn’t been his intention to damage the property itself, just its locks.
“10-17.”
3.
Minimalist design really provided **** cover.
“Delaney! ****! 10-68 Alpha.”
“10-9.”
2—
“Man down. 10-68 Alpha!”
The shield Bjorn dropped to counteract the limp helped avoid the bullets, though he wasn’t about to test his theory by closing the distance between them to retrieve a bomb from the knapsack. It was too late for it to be of much use.
—1.
“10-17.”
The 10mm had its advantages over other Glocks but an extra dozen bullets wasn’t one of them. The guard’s moment of indecision between reloading and reaching for his partner’s weapon at his feet gave the vampire enough time to unholster and take aim.
“Sorry, dude.”
Bjorn didn’t waste bullets.
The second body dropped as inelegantly as the first.
It wasn’t a kill shot, but where he’d refused to waste two bullets for a triple tap, Bjorn delivered with two clean headshots before holstering the weapon and taking stock of the two dead bodies. It was as much insurance as it was mercy, the experience of drowning in one’s blood one he’d lived through enough times to extend some measure of clemency.
“10-23.”
“****.”
Returning the silver bars and motion sensors to his knapsack, and ensuring this time he fully closed the ******* thing, Bjorn made his way out the lobby’s double doors and took a left, limping towards the staircase. With backup already here his options were far and few in between, though making his way up all those flights of stairs with a bullet nestling in his hamstring was almost as daunting as taking down actual cops twelve stories below.
Bjorn was on the twenty-third floor, the sound of ascending law enforcement not nearly far enough behind him, when it hit him. A fight might be inevitable. It was the blood trail, no doubt, which had led some to follow in his steps.
You still up in Elmworth?
