There was no time to explain. Kurst was getting away. Franks ducked through the next doorway. The agent fired and high-velocity holes puckered through the walls around him. Of course, they’d been told that it was Franks who had been shooting everyone. If he resisted, they’d put him down without hesitation.

“Active shooter on the ninth floor,” one of the men shouted into his radio. “Engaging.”

“What’s going on?” asked another guard.

“Franks lost it and shot Director Stark!”

That was bad. . . .

He’d probably trained these men, so he didn’t particularly feel like killing them. There were several metal filing cabinets in this room. Franks dropped the shotgun, and wrapped his arms around the nearest one. It was full of paper and weighed a ton. He grunted, hoisted it up, and carried it into the hall. The agents immediately opened fire, and Franks could feel the 5.56 bullets hitting the cabinet, but MCB-issued silver bullets fragmented quickly. They weren’t designed for penetration, and that was a lot of paper. Franks swung the cabinet and hurled it down the hallway as hard as possible. The agents yelped as it went crashing through their ranks. Drawers tore open and paperwork flew everywhere.

Franks scooped up the shotgun and ran down the hallway. He turned and went after Kurst before the guards could sort themselves out.

The elevator door was closing. Franks caught a glimpse of Kurst and a few others standing inside. The shotgun only had a pistol grip stock, so it wasn’t good for aiming, especially on the run, but Franks lifted it and opened fire. An oval of buckshot holes appeared in the elevator doors. Someone inside gasped. He reached it the instant before the door closed and jammed the muzzle into the crack. He fired again, splattering somebody all over the interior, but it wasn’t Kurst. Franks pumped the shotgun and then used the barrel to pry the doors further apart. He fired again and heard the wet slap that buckshot made with the close range obliteration of meat. Something inside the elevator let out an inhuman wail.

Franks pumped the shotgun again but before he could fire, something struck him hard in the back. He lurched forward and crashed into the doors. I’ve been shot. Franks pushed himself back up, but it was too late. Kurst had shoved the shotgun’s muzzle back and the doors were fully closed. The elevator was starting down.

His first instinct was to pry the doors open, then jump down the shaft after them, but there were agents firing on him, and MCB tended to be good shots. “Cease fire,” he ordered. Franks dropped the Ithaca on the floor and raised his hands over his head in a surrender position. He turned around. “We’ve been infiltrated.”