"That's not a very Amish rifle, huh?"
"That isn't."
"What?"
"It's 'That isn't a very Amish rifle.'"
"Lah-dee-dah." Cole tossed the binoculars to his partner. "Take a look."
"Why, Mr. Ellis," Chance grinned as he stared through them intently. He lowered them a moment. "I do believe you are on to something." He dropped them to the ground and stretched out on grassy hill, popping stiff spinal muscles.
The man in the beige shirt and gray pants pivoted about as he relished a cigarette, his grip on his rifle futilely tight. Nothing threatening besieged his line of sight; he kicked lightly at a knoll of thick yellow brush and went back inside.
Cole rose to his knees. "The sun's coming up. Think we've waited long enough?"
When he was met with no more than a sarcastic half-smile, he climbed the thick oak nearby swiftly and stood on a branch ten feet above.
"Banter? Any movement in the windows?"
"None that'd see you." Chance stood and slapped the tree. "Bon voyage, buddy."
Up above, Cole slipped a metal rock climber's safety clip around a zipline he'd attached to the roof under the cover of the previous night. Without a glance back, he leaped from the tree.
As he slid the eighth-mile to the distant compound, Chance watched after him. Cole Ellis was a man that should have had a career in vanity--athleticism or modeling or the like. Over six feet tall, young, strong, and fast. Describing him sounded like a recuiting ad for the navy. They'd met as young pups in the Defence Intelligence Agency, and grown into friends and men at the same time. Yet, all that time, Cole had revealed little of himself. In fact, Chance knew almost nothing more than that he'd grown up in Tennesse--and even the evidence of that, his accent, Cole was always veiling.
Cole struck the edge of the roof and clambered onto it. From this far away, there was no sound, and the man was an insect visually. Pondering the old meditation of the falling tree in the woods, Chance scaled the tree and pressed a button on the harpoon jabbed into the bark, retracting the line faster than it could fall.
___
From the roof, Cole watched the line shoot off back to his former vantage point, barely skimming the green pastures before snapping into its ejector. Relieved, he moved across the roof in a crouch, feeling awkward wearing such dark clothing in the sea of greens and yellows. However, if his hunch about the inside of the "farmhouse" he stood upon was correct, it would pay off.
He reached a ventilation duct, pulled a Phillips screwdriver from a pouch, and attacked the grate, not once breaking momentum. He soon held the grille in his hands and was able to peek his head in, chancing it and shining a flashlight down. It looked a bit tight; he grimaced, replacing the tools in his belt, and slipped in, digging his elbows and thighs into the sides to minimize noise and speed.
A few moments later, Cole struck the bottom of the vent. He knelt down and slid onto his stomach, touching at the thin plastic on his ear.
"Banter?"
"When will you call me by my first name? Are you seeing someone else?"
Cole rolled his eyes. "Hilarious. Where are you?"
"Ducked behind a fruit tree in the orchard out back." There was roughly a minute of silence. "Your exit is all prepped. Don't make any 'square root' puns on your way out."
Turning off his radio, Cole crept forward along the ventilation shaft, wary of tearing his black suit on rivets and exposing his skin to the cold steel. As per usual, he started out overly cautious and worried--eventually, he was able to shift into a rhythm and push his mild claustrophobia into the back of his mind with all his other undesirable memories and thoughts.
Ghastly coal fingers interlocked with angelic digits ahead; the reflection of bright light feeding through a grate. Cole reached it and carefully pushed a thin black cable through the slats, plugging it into a small screen on his left wrist and twisting a dial. The screen came alive like the opening act of a concert--Cole shifted the optic camera cable around in a slow circle, searching out the main act.
Satisfied that no one was in the corridor, he returned the cable to its pouch, opened the vent, and slipped through without a sound. The hallway was far more forgiving to his clinging charcoal suit; stale halls of gray and black ran on forever, leaving Cole a mouse in a maze too large to get a whiff of the cheese. He heard footsteps from around the corner--dipping his toe into the retrieval slot for a vending machine, he hauled himself onto the small concrete ledge above the doorway, rolling onto his back and laying there without a sound. With minute movements, Cole shifted only enough to peek over the edge.
A man in an identical beige shirt stepped under him briefly, pulling out a package of cigarettes and lifting one to his lips. He was the same one that had stood outside, surveilling the area nonchalantly. The mercenary retrieved his lighter, but neglected to use it, instead walking toward the door at the end of the corridor that seemed to lead outside.
The most crucial decisions in Cole's occupation had always been made in the shortest amounts of time; he shifted his weight far enough to hang from the opening by his calves, tugged at the keychain hanging from the guard's back pocket, and dropped to the ground with a silent roll, curling up behind the soda dispenser. The man with the very not-Amish rifle didn't break stride, instead stepping outside and letting the sunlight bathe the facility's lies.
___
Outside, Chance eyed the large metal garage door from his hiding place in the thick yellow brush. He had seen it while walking by to form a six foot by six foot square in the side wall, bordered by C4. Though the door was largely hidden by the fruit orchard and brush, any suspicion would lead to its quick discovery--and no Amish community Chance Douglas Banter had ever heard of used metal doors. Such an obvious hole in an otherwise brilliant cover was out of place.
He twisted his plastic radio over his lips and pressed the side. "Cole? Are you safe to talk?"
There was a moment of complete silence. He knew that in the distance, an almost inaudible trill had informed his partner of a message. After a few seconds, the static cleared up, and Chance heard a door click shut.
"Okay, I can talk now."
"What have you seen so far?"
"Labs, bunch of chemicals used in bomb-making. That's about it."
Chance paused. "Are you in the mood to explore, Indy?"
"What's up?"
"I found what looks like a garage door on the side wall." Chance glanced at it again. "It's covered in rust, but it looks like it'll open. Maybe there's a compound inside."
"I'm on it. In the meantime, don't make a sound."
Chance jeered. "Okay Docta Jones. I no touch anyt'ing."
He twisted off the lid on his canteen and took a drink. The sun was higher now, and starting to bake the fields. Chance felt like one of those plastic figurines children are fond of throwing in microwave ovens. Of course, were it not for the dark green and brown clothing, the California-bred male would have been used to it.
The click of gears sidetracked him. Chance looked up and saw the garage door moaning, as it slowly opened. The groaning of shifting metal was beginning to turn into a nails-to-chalkboard scream. He dropped his canteen to the earth and hurriedly jabbed at his radio.
"Jesus, turn it off!"
The garage door halted before he finished his sentence. Chance was in the middle of a grateful sigh when he noticed a shadow stretching far around the corner. He talked again into his earpiece.
"Movement!"
Static. "Probably our smoking sentry going for a stroll."
"Damn it." Chance rubbed at his stubble, any mood for humor long gone. "Close the door!"
"Already tried." He could almost hear Cole shrugging. "No good. This thing hasn't been used for years."
The shadow hesitated. Chance decided not to waste his only opportunity to attempt to fix the problem. Dashing from the brush, he pressed up against the wall between the door and the edge of the wall. He unclipped his holster and slipped his hand around his Glock, staring wearily at the shadow.
Come on, he thought. Turn around.
The shadow took a puff on an imaginary cigarette and began to move forward, as Chance pulled his pistol from the holster and, holding his arm parallel to the wall, flicked off the safety.
He saw a beige arm, and that was all the leeway he'd give the man. Without even moving, Chance fired a bullet straight into the man's shoulder. As he stepped around the corner, the man spun around from the force, dropping his gun, and fell onto his stomach. He was in the process of reaching for his radio when a round glanced off of his spine and he dropped his arm, motionless.
Chance grimaced. He'd killed before, but was not used to it; he was the academic, Cole was Mr. Mission, the infiltrator. The one who could pull that trigger and not feel hurricane season coming in his bowels. The barrel still steaming, Chance holstered his sidearm and dragged the paralyzed man into the brush.
___
From inside the car compound, Cole had turned back toward the entrance when he heard two shots, one only seconds after the other. Worry never reared its head--never even entered his mind. Cole recognized a nine-millimeter shot when he heard one, and he had more than enough confidence that his partner could handle a lone goon.
Having searched the main floor and finding nothing but offices and a lab, Cole began to head back into the corridor when something caught his eye from the peripheral. He strode over and shoved a large stack of palettes out of the way, and in its place was a thick steel cover over something. It was too large to be a drainage pipe, and the ground didn't slope toward it anyway.
"Chance? Everything okay?" he beckoned over the radio.
"I... yeah."
"Alright. I found some kind of a hatch. I'm going in. I'm guessing Philip Morris bought it?"
A dark laugh that sounded more sad than gleeful was the response.
"No need for surveillance, then. Come on in."
He flicked off the radio and snatched a crowbar off a nearby workbench, as Chance ducked under the door.
Chance took a sweep of the area. "This would be a dandy extraction point."
Cole nodded. "I figured you'd think so." He stuck his thumb over his shoulder. "There's a computer in an office down that way. Decided you should be the one to check it out, you're better at that stuff."
Chance glanced at some of the old cars inside the chop shop. "Want me to rig some booby traps?"
His partner didn't respond, as he was grunting and struggling with the hatch's cover. Eventually, it gave way and resigned to lift an inch onto the rim of the opening. Cole kicked at it, panting, until it was out of his way.
He looked up at Chance, rubbing sore muscles. "Do your thing, Short Round. I'll be back."
And the man in black disappeared into the hole, as the man in green and brown stripped down and became him.
___
Now in a charcoal suit identical to his partner's, Chance went about the compound, slipping a small charge near the gastank of each vehicle, making sure to set them to different frequencies from the wall and each other. In his holster, his pistol lay, two rounds missing from its clip--a part of its soul gone. That was how Chance felt each time he used deadly force. Deep inside him, as each shell casing struck the ground, a filthy cloud was devouring him. A cloud he would glaze over with humor.
He tapped at his radio. "I just planted a bomb on a sixty-seven and a half Mustang. I feel oh-so-horrible."
A pause. "I'm sure you'll get over it."
Chance frowned and walked down the corridor.
___
The tunnel had grown dark long before Chance had called him over the radio. However, a fluorescent light had begun to wash up the tunnel from below. Switching off his headset, Cole hooked his legs around a rung of the ladder and fell back, just tall enough to peek upside-down from near the ceiling. The corridor was much like the ones above, though a tad more stale and metallic. Unlike the halls above, however, this one was clear of both mercenaries and cameras. Gripping the farthest ring he could stretch to, Cole silently swooped down.
He knew he was near what they were looking for--whatever that was. The bare intelligence gathered merely recorded strong insinuation of the development of some kind of weapon somewhere within the bowels of the small farming community. Cole and Chance had been sent to weed out a suspicious ranch, and had done so.
The time for stealth was coming to a close--Cole slipped his Beretta from its thigh-holster and held it ready, flicking off the safety as he took a spin through the hallway. The only doors in it were an office that had been to his back upon his descent and large vault doors ahead of him gleaming silver. As he walked toward it, inspecting the large division that cut through the door in a jagged S-shape, Cole's spirits sank. Waiting in front of him was a blue screen on a thin metal rod, the empty outline of a hand set into it. He didn't need a sign to tell him what it was.
"Let us help you with that."
Cole jolted, but the strike to his tricep was both swift and brutal, causing his fingers to release his handgun. Electric numbness served as a jittery reminder of the hit as Cole was escorted towards the doors.
One of the gunmen pressed his palm over the screen. After a brief pause, the screen blackened and lowered into the ground, as a pneumatic hiss fled from the creases of the large doors and at least a half dozen bolts clanked into their stops. The doors disappeared into the wall on either side, and Cole was brusquely shoved forward. After he had collected himself, he looked up to survey the room--and gasped.
"This is what you were trying to find, huh." The goon at his left arm laughed sharply. "Or should I say it would have been?"
The room was a large cube, a hundred feet in every direction. Onyx lineolum lined the floor from wall to wall and the walls held illuminatory lights every twenty feet. A large halogen spotlight mounted dead center into the ceiling shone onto the floor, which was completely empty. The room held neither an item nor a trace that any item had ever been there.
"Irony's great, isn't it?" The left-arm goon jabbed at Cole again, this time around the kidney. Crying out, he held himself back from gripping the bruise, from giving the man any satisfaction. "You went to all that trouble to get into an empty room. A worthless MacGuffin." His laugh was like a cheese grater on sandpaper, embedding itself into Cole's spine and wriggling in either direction. "To die for nothing. Literally nothing. It's almost poetic."
Neither man expected the aghast man to move so quickly. As he gripped the man on the right's rifle, Cole pushed it away from himself while kicking his legs up onto the shoulders of the Lover of Irony. A toe behind his opposite ear and a heel across his jaw--his neck snapped easily, and he dropped lifelessly to the ground with Cole. Rolling away from the other man before he could react, Cole fired four shots into the his chest just as expediantly.
Guards began to pour from three false walls, hornets defending their harmed nest. A burst of submachine gun crackled across the tiles on both sides of Cole before he realized he'd taken three hits to his abdomen.
His stomach churning, he stumbled into the corridor. Well aware that he was in no shape to make the ascent by hand, Cole slipped a small brown tube off of his belt and laid it on the ground, folding down four small metal supports and firing a piton high up the tunnel, hoping it had been dug in a straight line. After pausing hardly a second, Cole stepped onto the metal rods and tightened his hands around a metal grip, sending him rocketing up the hole. Reaching the surface, Cole threw himself from device, landing hard on his stomach. He hurriedly hit his radio and ducked behind a Hummer.
"Get me out of here, Chance!"
A loud explosion shook the tunnel, as debris and dust flew overhead. With rubble still flying through the air, Cole cast himself through the hole and hurried across the field. Behind him, the cars began to explode equally loudly. Uninterested in glancing over his shoulder, he collapse at the foot of the tree, as Chance stooped beside him.
The one stared at the other, seeing the wounds in one's eyes and the other's body, and asked each other the same question.
"Are you alright?"
And in equal unison, they hurried down the hill, fashioning the same lie.
"Yeah."
"That isn't."
"What?"
"It's 'That isn't a very Amish rifle.'"
"Lah-dee-dah." Cole tossed the binoculars to his partner. "Take a look."
"Why, Mr. Ellis," Chance grinned as he stared through them intently. He lowered them a moment. "I do believe you are on to something." He dropped them to the ground and stretched out on grassy hill, popping stiff spinal muscles.
The man in the beige shirt and gray pants pivoted about as he relished a cigarette, his grip on his rifle futilely tight. Nothing threatening besieged his line of sight; he kicked lightly at a knoll of thick yellow brush and went back inside.
Cole rose to his knees. "The sun's coming up. Think we've waited long enough?"
When he was met with no more than a sarcastic half-smile, he climbed the thick oak nearby swiftly and stood on a branch ten feet above.
"Banter? Any movement in the windows?"
"None that'd see you." Chance stood and slapped the tree. "Bon voyage, buddy."
Up above, Cole slipped a metal rock climber's safety clip around a zipline he'd attached to the roof under the cover of the previous night. Without a glance back, he leaped from the tree.
As he slid the eighth-mile to the distant compound, Chance watched after him. Cole Ellis was a man that should have had a career in vanity--athleticism or modeling or the like. Over six feet tall, young, strong, and fast. Describing him sounded like a recuiting ad for the navy. They'd met as young pups in the Defence Intelligence Agency, and grown into friends and men at the same time. Yet, all that time, Cole had revealed little of himself. In fact, Chance knew almost nothing more than that he'd grown up in Tennesse--and even the evidence of that, his accent, Cole was always veiling.
Cole struck the edge of the roof and clambered onto it. From this far away, there was no sound, and the man was an insect visually. Pondering the old meditation of the falling tree in the woods, Chance scaled the tree and pressed a button on the harpoon jabbed into the bark, retracting the line faster than it could fall.
___
From the roof, Cole watched the line shoot off back to his former vantage point, barely skimming the green pastures before snapping into its ejector. Relieved, he moved across the roof in a crouch, feeling awkward wearing such dark clothing in the sea of greens and yellows. However, if his hunch about the inside of the "farmhouse" he stood upon was correct, it would pay off.
He reached a ventilation duct, pulled a Phillips screwdriver from a pouch, and attacked the grate, not once breaking momentum. He soon held the grille in his hands and was able to peek his head in, chancing it and shining a flashlight down. It looked a bit tight; he grimaced, replacing the tools in his belt, and slipped in, digging his elbows and thighs into the sides to minimize noise and speed.
A few moments later, Cole struck the bottom of the vent. He knelt down and slid onto his stomach, touching at the thin plastic on his ear.
"Banter?"
"When will you call me by my first name? Are you seeing someone else?"
Cole rolled his eyes. "Hilarious. Where are you?"
"Ducked behind a fruit tree in the orchard out back." There was roughly a minute of silence. "Your exit is all prepped. Don't make any 'square root' puns on your way out."
Turning off his radio, Cole crept forward along the ventilation shaft, wary of tearing his black suit on rivets and exposing his skin to the cold steel. As per usual, he started out overly cautious and worried--eventually, he was able to shift into a rhythm and push his mild claustrophobia into the back of his mind with all his other undesirable memories and thoughts.
Ghastly coal fingers interlocked with angelic digits ahead; the reflection of bright light feeding through a grate. Cole reached it and carefully pushed a thin black cable through the slats, plugging it into a small screen on his left wrist and twisting a dial. The screen came alive like the opening act of a concert--Cole shifted the optic camera cable around in a slow circle, searching out the main act.
Satisfied that no one was in the corridor, he returned the cable to its pouch, opened the vent, and slipped through without a sound. The hallway was far more forgiving to his clinging charcoal suit; stale halls of gray and black ran on forever, leaving Cole a mouse in a maze too large to get a whiff of the cheese. He heard footsteps from around the corner--dipping his toe into the retrieval slot for a vending machine, he hauled himself onto the small concrete ledge above the doorway, rolling onto his back and laying there without a sound. With minute movements, Cole shifted only enough to peek over the edge.
A man in an identical beige shirt stepped under him briefly, pulling out a package of cigarettes and lifting one to his lips. He was the same one that had stood outside, surveilling the area nonchalantly. The mercenary retrieved his lighter, but neglected to use it, instead walking toward the door at the end of the corridor that seemed to lead outside.
The most crucial decisions in Cole's occupation had always been made in the shortest amounts of time; he shifted his weight far enough to hang from the opening by his calves, tugged at the keychain hanging from the guard's back pocket, and dropped to the ground with a silent roll, curling up behind the soda dispenser. The man with the very not-Amish rifle didn't break stride, instead stepping outside and letting the sunlight bathe the facility's lies.
___
Outside, Chance eyed the large metal garage door from his hiding place in the thick yellow brush. He had seen it while walking by to form a six foot by six foot square in the side wall, bordered by C4. Though the door was largely hidden by the fruit orchard and brush, any suspicion would lead to its quick discovery--and no Amish community Chance Douglas Banter had ever heard of used metal doors. Such an obvious hole in an otherwise brilliant cover was out of place.
He twisted his plastic radio over his lips and pressed the side. "Cole? Are you safe to talk?"
There was a moment of complete silence. He knew that in the distance, an almost inaudible trill had informed his partner of a message. After a few seconds, the static cleared up, and Chance heard a door click shut.
"Okay, I can talk now."
"What have you seen so far?"
"Labs, bunch of chemicals used in bomb-making. That's about it."
Chance paused. "Are you in the mood to explore, Indy?"
"What's up?"
"I found what looks like a garage door on the side wall." Chance glanced at it again. "It's covered in rust, but it looks like it'll open. Maybe there's a compound inside."
"I'm on it. In the meantime, don't make a sound."
Chance jeered. "Okay Docta Jones. I no touch anyt'ing."
He twisted off the lid on his canteen and took a drink. The sun was higher now, and starting to bake the fields. Chance felt like one of those plastic figurines children are fond of throwing in microwave ovens. Of course, were it not for the dark green and brown clothing, the California-bred male would have been used to it.
The click of gears sidetracked him. Chance looked up and saw the garage door moaning, as it slowly opened. The groaning of shifting metal was beginning to turn into a nails-to-chalkboard scream. He dropped his canteen to the earth and hurriedly jabbed at his radio.
"Jesus, turn it off!"
The garage door halted before he finished his sentence. Chance was in the middle of a grateful sigh when he noticed a shadow stretching far around the corner. He talked again into his earpiece.
"Movement!"
Static. "Probably our smoking sentry going for a stroll."
"Damn it." Chance rubbed at his stubble, any mood for humor long gone. "Close the door!"
"Already tried." He could almost hear Cole shrugging. "No good. This thing hasn't been used for years."
The shadow hesitated. Chance decided not to waste his only opportunity to attempt to fix the problem. Dashing from the brush, he pressed up against the wall between the door and the edge of the wall. He unclipped his holster and slipped his hand around his Glock, staring wearily at the shadow.
Come on, he thought. Turn around.
The shadow took a puff on an imaginary cigarette and began to move forward, as Chance pulled his pistol from the holster and, holding his arm parallel to the wall, flicked off the safety.
He saw a beige arm, and that was all the leeway he'd give the man. Without even moving, Chance fired a bullet straight into the man's shoulder. As he stepped around the corner, the man spun around from the force, dropping his gun, and fell onto his stomach. He was in the process of reaching for his radio when a round glanced off of his spine and he dropped his arm, motionless.
Chance grimaced. He'd killed before, but was not used to it; he was the academic, Cole was Mr. Mission, the infiltrator. The one who could pull that trigger and not feel hurricane season coming in his bowels. The barrel still steaming, Chance holstered his sidearm and dragged the paralyzed man into the brush.
___
From inside the car compound, Cole had turned back toward the entrance when he heard two shots, one only seconds after the other. Worry never reared its head--never even entered his mind. Cole recognized a nine-millimeter shot when he heard one, and he had more than enough confidence that his partner could handle a lone goon.
Having searched the main floor and finding nothing but offices and a lab, Cole began to head back into the corridor when something caught his eye from the peripheral. He strode over and shoved a large stack of palettes out of the way, and in its place was a thick steel cover over something. It was too large to be a drainage pipe, and the ground didn't slope toward it anyway.
"Chance? Everything okay?" he beckoned over the radio.
"I... yeah."
"Alright. I found some kind of a hatch. I'm going in. I'm guessing Philip Morris bought it?"
A dark laugh that sounded more sad than gleeful was the response.
"No need for surveillance, then. Come on in."
He flicked off the radio and snatched a crowbar off a nearby workbench, as Chance ducked under the door.
Chance took a sweep of the area. "This would be a dandy extraction point."
Cole nodded. "I figured you'd think so." He stuck his thumb over his shoulder. "There's a computer in an office down that way. Decided you should be the one to check it out, you're better at that stuff."
Chance glanced at some of the old cars inside the chop shop. "Want me to rig some booby traps?"
His partner didn't respond, as he was grunting and struggling with the hatch's cover. Eventually, it gave way and resigned to lift an inch onto the rim of the opening. Cole kicked at it, panting, until it was out of his way.
He looked up at Chance, rubbing sore muscles. "Do your thing, Short Round. I'll be back."
And the man in black disappeared into the hole, as the man in green and brown stripped down and became him.
___
Now in a charcoal suit identical to his partner's, Chance went about the compound, slipping a small charge near the gastank of each vehicle, making sure to set them to different frequencies from the wall and each other. In his holster, his pistol lay, two rounds missing from its clip--a part of its soul gone. That was how Chance felt each time he used deadly force. Deep inside him, as each shell casing struck the ground, a filthy cloud was devouring him. A cloud he would glaze over with humor.
He tapped at his radio. "I just planted a bomb on a sixty-seven and a half Mustang. I feel oh-so-horrible."
A pause. "I'm sure you'll get over it."
Chance frowned and walked down the corridor.
___
The tunnel had grown dark long before Chance had called him over the radio. However, a fluorescent light had begun to wash up the tunnel from below. Switching off his headset, Cole hooked his legs around a rung of the ladder and fell back, just tall enough to peek upside-down from near the ceiling. The corridor was much like the ones above, though a tad more stale and metallic. Unlike the halls above, however, this one was clear of both mercenaries and cameras. Gripping the farthest ring he could stretch to, Cole silently swooped down.
He knew he was near what they were looking for--whatever that was. The bare intelligence gathered merely recorded strong insinuation of the development of some kind of weapon somewhere within the bowels of the small farming community. Cole and Chance had been sent to weed out a suspicious ranch, and had done so.
The time for stealth was coming to a close--Cole slipped his Beretta from its thigh-holster and held it ready, flicking off the safety as he took a spin through the hallway. The only doors in it were an office that had been to his back upon his descent and large vault doors ahead of him gleaming silver. As he walked toward it, inspecting the large division that cut through the door in a jagged S-shape, Cole's spirits sank. Waiting in front of him was a blue screen on a thin metal rod, the empty outline of a hand set into it. He didn't need a sign to tell him what it was.
"Let us help you with that."
Cole jolted, but the strike to his tricep was both swift and brutal, causing his fingers to release his handgun. Electric numbness served as a jittery reminder of the hit as Cole was escorted towards the doors.
One of the gunmen pressed his palm over the screen. After a brief pause, the screen blackened and lowered into the ground, as a pneumatic hiss fled from the creases of the large doors and at least a half dozen bolts clanked into their stops. The doors disappeared into the wall on either side, and Cole was brusquely shoved forward. After he had collected himself, he looked up to survey the room--and gasped.
"This is what you were trying to find, huh." The goon at his left arm laughed sharply. "Or should I say it would have been?"
The room was a large cube, a hundred feet in every direction. Onyx lineolum lined the floor from wall to wall and the walls held illuminatory lights every twenty feet. A large halogen spotlight mounted dead center into the ceiling shone onto the floor, which was completely empty. The room held neither an item nor a trace that any item had ever been there.
"Irony's great, isn't it?" The left-arm goon jabbed at Cole again, this time around the kidney. Crying out, he held himself back from gripping the bruise, from giving the man any satisfaction. "You went to all that trouble to get into an empty room. A worthless MacGuffin." His laugh was like a cheese grater on sandpaper, embedding itself into Cole's spine and wriggling in either direction. "To die for nothing. Literally nothing. It's almost poetic."
Neither man expected the aghast man to move so quickly. As he gripped the man on the right's rifle, Cole pushed it away from himself while kicking his legs up onto the shoulders of the Lover of Irony. A toe behind his opposite ear and a heel across his jaw--his neck snapped easily, and he dropped lifelessly to the ground with Cole. Rolling away from the other man before he could react, Cole fired four shots into the his chest just as expediantly.
Guards began to pour from three false walls, hornets defending their harmed nest. A burst of submachine gun crackled across the tiles on both sides of Cole before he realized he'd taken three hits to his abdomen.
His stomach churning, he stumbled into the corridor. Well aware that he was in no shape to make the ascent by hand, Cole slipped a small brown tube off of his belt and laid it on the ground, folding down four small metal supports and firing a piton high up the tunnel, hoping it had been dug in a straight line. After pausing hardly a second, Cole stepped onto the metal rods and tightened his hands around a metal grip, sending him rocketing up the hole. Reaching the surface, Cole threw himself from device, landing hard on his stomach. He hurriedly hit his radio and ducked behind a Hummer.
"Get me out of here, Chance!"
A loud explosion shook the tunnel, as debris and dust flew overhead. With rubble still flying through the air, Cole cast himself through the hole and hurried across the field. Behind him, the cars began to explode equally loudly. Uninterested in glancing over his shoulder, he collapse at the foot of the tree, as Chance stooped beside him.
The one stared at the other, seeing the wounds in one's eyes and the other's body, and asked each other the same question.
"Are you alright?"
And in equal unison, they hurried down the hill, fashioning the same lie.
"Yeah."
it's just something I've seen often in critiquing, especially web-based.
.