Three members of the security team were closing on him, carbines shouldered. Franks recognized all of them. Their fingers were on the triggers and their sights were on his center of mass. “Get on your knees!” one of them shouted.

“They were using magic to impersonate me. They’re in this elevator. Call it in and seal the building.” He was glad to see that at least one of them had sense enough to repeat that into his radio.

“On your knees. Hands on your head!”

Though it pissed him off, Franks complied. Going after them himself would be more satisfying, but the sensible thing to do was to sic the might of the MCB on Kurst. “There’s an elder demon in that elevator. Use extreme caution.” Franks slowly placed his hands on top of his head. It made the bullet hole in his back stretch and burn.

Four more men appeared, also dressed in MCB armor, but these he didn’t recognize. The one in the lead aimed a suppressed MP7 at Franks’ head. Time seemed to slow as Franks realized he was taking the slack out of the trigger.

This wasn’t an arrest. It was an assassination.

Franks jerked his head to the side as the suppressed subgun fired. The tiny, high-velocity bullet cut a chunk from his ear.

So much for the sensible thing to do.

Before anyone else could react, Franks kicked the Ithaca that was lying on the carpet. The shotgun went flipping through the air to strike the shooter, who stumbled back, firing more rounds into the ceiling tiles. For the briefest instant, the lead agent’s eyes had followed the movement of the shotgun, and that was all it took for Franks to reach out, swat the G36 from his hands, grab him by the armor, and spin him around to use as a shield. Franks pulled the Glock 20 from the agent’s holster as he dragged him backwards.

Humans could never get used to just how fast Franks could be when he felt like it.

The assassin was bringing the MP7 back down as Franks lined up the front sight. He fired, placing a 10mm round through the man’s eye socket and spreading a cloud of brains across the others. The bits always reminded him of wet dough.

He pulled his hostage back around the corner. The real MCB held their fire, but the strangers let it rip. Franks yanked the helpless agent aside and sent him spinning into a potted plant and out of the line of fire. No need to get one of his innocent men shot. Franks stuck the Glock around the corner and cranked off two rounds, forcing them to duck down. Then he turned and sprinted down the hall.