“Hostage count?” Maverick asked, loading his signature modified sidearm—a gun that fired smart-darts laced with a neural paralytic.
He slung his rifle and rappelled silently down the back wall of the gallery, landing behind a row of server racks. He removed his helmet, then his boots. Barefoot, he crept to the edge of the crowd. He found a lab coat, shrugged it on, and smeared coolant grease on his face. Then he stood up, hands raised, and stumbled into the hostage group. maverick igi
Maverick had two options. Go loud and risk the switch. Or go deep. “Hostage count
“You were always the sentimental one, Arjun. You think I’d let you get close enough to save them?” Barefoot, he crept to the edge of the crowd
Fenris stared at his own dead hand. For one second, he looked almost human. Almost sorry.