"Captain Reed seems uncomfortable," I say, my voice carrying across the warehouse floor like a death sentence. "Perhaps you should untie her."
Franklin Wallace's hand moves toward his sidearm. The motion is smooth, practiced, professional. Twenty years of special forces training evident in every muscle fiber.
Still too slow.
I close the thirty-foot distance before his fingers touch the grip. My palm connects with his wrist, and the sharp crack of breaking bone echoes through the concrete space.
Wallace staggers backward, cradling his shattered arm against his chest. His face contorts with pain and disbelief.
"Impossible," he breathes. "No human moves that fast."
"Your friend Shaw said the same thing." I circle him slowly, letting him see death approaching. "Right before I crushed his ribcage."
The other three men scatter, seeking cover behind shipping containers and machinery. Smart tactical thinking. Wrong opponent.
