President Cole smiled, pulled up a chair, and tapped “Start.”
Thorne felt a hot sting across his ribs. First health bar gone. He grunted, fired twice more, and the fourth man crumpled.
It was a joke, really. A training tool the tech squad used during downtime. In the game, you controlled a lone agent who had to dive in front of bullets to protect a slow, pixelated president. The tagline was always:
President Cole looked at the tablet, then at the reinforced steel door that was beginning to glow orange at the hinges. “Marcus,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “They want me. Negotiate.”
“RUN, SIR!” he roared.
Silence.
Thorne’s lips moved. A faint, bloody smile crossed his face.
The gunmen hesitated for a single, crucial second. They hadn't expected a lone man to stand.