The Eighth Day

Chapter 44

Shawn Jaffe opened his eyes and shook his head to clear it. He lay in a ruin of fractured tables and chairs. Their splintered remains poked up around him. He clambered out of the debris, brushed at his clothes, ran a hand over his face and through his hair. A cloud of plaster billowed around him. He took stock of his injuries—nothing broken, no cuts or bruises, no pain.

"Genetic augmentation," Sam Harrington had said. "This is the prototype that got you your defense contract."

The muted pop of a silenced gunshot rang out. Dodd went limp and slumped to the ground. Victoria tried to crawl away, but the Alpha grabbed her by the ankle and yanked her back. When she tried again, he kicked her in the side and leveled his gun at her.

They were halfway across the room—too far to cover. He reached for the pistol tucked into his jeans at the small of his back, but he'd never draw in time.

"Hey!" he called out.

The Alpha swung the pistol toward Shawn.

As with the van hit-and-run at the morgue and the shoot-out in Amarillo, time seemed to dilate, and each moment seemed to stretch into infinity. Shawn visualized the trajectory of the bullet. The muscles in the Alpha's forearm flexed, and his index finger squeezed the trigger.

Shawn shifted to the right. The gun bucked and barked, and the bullet whistled past his ear. The barrel tracked his movement. He ducked in the opposite direction as the Alpha fired again. Shawn forged ahead and courted the hail of lead as the Alpha continued to fire. But each shot failed to find its target.

In a knot of frustration, the Alpha turned the pistol on Victoria, but Shawn had drawn his own gun. He aimed and fired. The others had fired with silenced weapons, but his roared. The impact ripped the pistol out of the Alpha's hand. It spun through the air, clattered across the room, and wedged itself in shadow beneath a confusion of overturned tables.

Shawn pulled the trigger again, but the Alpha dodged the shot. He slipped and sidestepped as Shawn fired, and they advanced toward one another, gaining speed. Shawn emptied the magazine and threw the pistol at the Alpha, who batted it aside without missing a step.

Shawn lowered his shoulder and caught the Alpha in the midsection as they collided. The Alpha staggered back several steps, planted his feet, and hammered his fists into Shawn's back. Shawn grunted and dropped to a knee. The Alpha's next blow hit him on the side of the head, and Shawn sprawled sideways and tumbled across the floor.

He scrambled to his feet and launched himself at the Alpha, who dropped into a crouch, and Shawn groped at empty air as he flew over him. The Alpha slammed into his legs and sent him ass over heels. He flipped through the air and bowled into a cluster of chairs, sending them asunder. The pain was monstrous but faded to a blunt itch as flesh and bone mended with unnatural speed.

During their melee, Victoria must have made her way to Harrington's gun. Now, she rose on her knees and took awkward aim with her left hand, her other a broken shatter of bone. The Alpha caught sight of her at the last second. He lurched out of the way as the gun boomed. Victoria steadied the weapon on her forearm and squeezed off a rapid succession of shots, but it was useless. The Alpha wove through the gunfire and stalked toward her with murder in his eyes. He grabbed a chair by its back and swung it sideways. It crashed into her, and she sprawled onto her back.

Shawn sprang to his feet and charged.

The Alpha ripped the gun out of her hand and tossed it aside. His lip curled into a sneer, and he lifted a foot to stomp her face. She lay helpless and unmoving—unconscious or something worse.

Shawn slammed into the Alpha. They tumbled across the ground, bounced to their feet, and faced each other like coiled springs.

The Alpha leered through his tangled mop of hair and attacked.