Footsteps echoed frantically down the concrete corridor as heavy boots closed in on the server room. The commander burst through the doorway first, his carbine raised and sweeping the aisles before he caught sight of the crimson pool spreading across the white tiles. "Miller!" the commander barked, dropping to his knees beside the fallen sergeant. Billy skidded to a halt right behind him, chest heaving from the sprint down from the sub-level office. He took in the shattered helmet, the jagged cranial fracture, and the shallow, rattling breaths escaping Miller’s lips. "Medic! Get a trauma team down to Sector Four, stat!" Billy shouted into his shoulder mic, before turning his sharp gaze to the commander. "Secure the perimeter and get him stabilized. I'm going after Daniel." Billy pivoted around the server rack, following the trail of hurried bootprints straight toward the heavy industrial garage doors. But as he rounded the final corner into the auxiliary corridor, he didn't find an ongoing gunfight. He found me. My palms were slammed flat against the cold, reinforced steel of the closed motor pool doors. My face was pressed directly against the small wired-glass window, staring out into the dim-lit expanse of the subterranean garage. Out there, idling by the exit ramp, was a black military Humvee. The mole had sprinted toward it, but before diving inside, he had caught movement at the glass partition. He had slowed his pace, pivoting on his heel to face the sealed door. Standing right there on the running board, he had looked back across the cavernous garage, flashed a calm, arrogant grin, and raised his hand in a slow, deliberate military salute right at the window—holding it for a second just to let it sink in before hopping into the cab and roaring off into the night. That mocking salute was the final straw. It shattered whatever restraint I had left, unleashing an absolute tidal wave of pure, unadulterated malice. The veins in my neck bulged, thick and dark, and I yanked the heavy riot-grade Remington from the back-sling mount across my back, racking the slide with a violent, metallic clack that echoed off the concrete bulkheads. "Open the damn door, you coward!" I screamed, my voice fracturing with an explosive, veins-bursting rage as I leveled the barrel point-blank at the heavy steel security lock housing. BOOM! The deafening roar of the 12-gauge slug detonated in the enclosed hallway, sending a blinding flash of orange fire and a cloud of acrid smoke into the air. Sparks rained down like a welding torch, but the hardened steel plating only dented inward, refusing to give way. "Fucking open up!" I bellowed, racking another shell with a furious pump that sent the empty casing clattering across the floor. BOOM! Another thunderous blast shook the corridor, rattling the overhead conduit trays and showering the floor with shredded shrapnel. Still, the deadbolt held. Enraged, I dropped the shotgun to its sling, backed up two paces, and launched a savage, steel-toed kick straight into the center seam of the doors. CRASH. The impact rattled the entire pneumatic frame, but the heavy motor pool doors wouldn't budge an inch. I slammed my boot into the steel again and again, each kick landing with the force of a battering ram. "You hear me, you pussy-ass coward piece of shit?!" I roared, my voice cracking with absolute fury as I battered the unyielding metal with my fists, my breathing coming in jagged, animalistic gasps. "You think you're safe out there in the dark?! I don't give a fuck where you run, I don't give a fuck what hole you crawl back into—I'll fucking find you!" Billy skidded around the corner just in time to see me draw back and throw another devastating kick at the steel door, my entire frame vibrating with a terrifying, feral volatility. He froze dead in his tracks, his hand instinctively hovering near his holster. In all the years Billy had worked alongside me, he had never seen me lose control like this. The sheer intensity of my rage was heavy enough to make the hair on his arms stand up, sending a cold, involuntary shiver straight down his spine. Down the corridor, propped against a server rack with blood soaked into his collar, Miller watched through half-closed eyes, completely frozen. Even bleeding out on the cold floor, watching me tear into solid steel with bare hands and a shotgun after that mocking gesture made one thing painfully clear to everyone in the facility: The rat in the Humvee had just signed his own death warrant.

Uncaged