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Twenty-four-2
“Drop the f*****g g*n!” He saw two of them, both pointing guns at him. This was not right. These men should not be down here. Who were they and where had they come from? A blow, like a kick, hit him in the chest and he staggered backwards. He'd been shot. That shouldn't have happened either. Instincts were slow, dulled by the regeneration. He doubted any militiaman had suffered such injuries as those he had received when he came out of the sewer. He tried to bring up his own weapon in response and more bullets slammed into him, knocking him against the red-brick wall. He stood, gazing into the water. None of this should be happening. Delays were not acceptable and he had to return, put in his report. The Silencers would be expecting a full, detailed account of what had happened, includin
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