Franz's POV (continued)
A shadow crossed the hallway. Heavy boots. Measured steps. Franz watched the angle—judged the distance between breath and trigger.
He spun out from behind the pillar like a whip of muscle and smoke.
The first man raised his rifle.
Too slow.
BANG.
The bullet hit just above the brow. A mist of pink sprayed against the wall.
The rifle clattered.
Franz didn't stop moving.
He closed the distance to the last guard, sprinting low.
The man flinched, raised his sidearm—
Franz slid under the arm, caught the wrist mid-motion, and slammed his elbow up—
CRACK.
The wrist broke backward with a sound like snapping branches.
The man screamed.
Franz twisted, grabbed the dropped pistol in mid-air, and shoved it up under the man's chin.
BANG.
The top of his skull burst like an overripe fruit. Blood and bone sprayed upward, splashing the ceiling.
Silence.
Just the hiss of smoke from the barrel.
Franz exhaled. Stepped back.
[…This is art.]
