The room was eerily silent as debris particles floated through the air. Light beams from the street created impossible shadows as Pitcher waited for the bum rush to come. He positioned his feet on the underside of the cot and prepared to vault it into whoever came through that door.
They came up the hall right to 1-F. Some murmuring and then the crash. First came the door, popped off the top hinge and bolt. In came goon #1, dressed in black with red trim across his blast vest – Colonial Police?! No matter, thought Pitcher, you come for me, I take you out regardless of what insignia you bear. Due to a bulletproof torso he aimed for the ankles and blew off #1’s foot dropping him in agony.
Then came #2, with a third expected. He nearly tripped over #1 and was met with a flying cot to the head. Stunned and spun around, then set upon by Pitcher, two rounds entered the space between his helmet and flak jacket.
Three stood in the doorway and unloaded a clip into the room. Smoke obscured everything for a moment…