Free Exit Wounds by Aaron Fisher Page A

to one last bullet, rolling it back and forth between his index finger and thumb, forcing himself not to mix the past with the present. No way was Giacometti a member of the Taliban. Yet Paul still couldn’t place his accent. It was European but that was all the distinction he could get from it. There was an almost aristocratic twang to the way he pronounced his words.
    The name, Giacometti, sounded Italian. But Paul knew that meant nothing. It was probably just an alias. Most likely a name he picked at random because he liked the sound of it. Whoever he was or wherever he was from, Paul knew one thing about Giacometti. He was building an army.
    Suddenly a piercing scream echoed down the corridor. Paul instantly rose to his feet. He waited for another sound but none came. Slowly he edged forward, his eyes fixed on the point where the corridor cut to the right.
    Paul moved to the right, putting his back flat against the wall as he put one foot in front of the other with slow precision. His eyes remained set on the bend in the hall.
    When he reached the edge of the wall before it turned Paul moved his head to peer round. A second horrific scream made him retract abruptly before he had even seen anything. He waited and then looked around again. The hallway was clear.
    Moving round the bend, the corridor straightened up again and Paul moved back to the centre. No use hiding against the wall now. Another scream alerted him to the thick trail of red on the floor. It ran down the corridor in front of him, forcing Paul to quicken his pace without thinking.
    Adrenalin had already started pouring into his veins by the time Paul had followed the blood to one of several closed doors on the left. He had no idea what was in the next room and he knew better than to just barge in there, hoping for the best. He breathed deep and tried to calm himself down a bit. He needed to think first.
    He looked round for something to use as a weapon but found the hallway empty. The same screaming voice shrieked in agony again, howling loudly.
    Fuck it. Against all his training Paul took a few steps back and got ready to kick the door down running.
    Paul sprinted the few feet to the door but just as he raised his right foot the impact of his boot on wood was pre-empted by the loud bang of a gunshot.
    The resonance of the sound brought Paul to a halt, his feet skidding slightly on the tiled floor. The movement was loud and echoed down the empty corridor in the silent wake of the shooting.
    Paul quickly made for the door next to the one that the gunshot had come from. This time luck was on his side and it was unlocked. Making sure he made no other noise, but still being as fast as he could he darted inside and closed the door behind him. He crouched down behind the handle, so that he could peer out through the lock into the hallway.
    The door opposite opened and shut again. Paul remained absolutely still. If this guy was switched on and had heard Paul’s feet, then he’d be on his guard and the slightest movement would alert him to Paul’s location. Of course, there was still the chance that if had heard Paul outside the door he would check all the rooms anyway. Paul silently reached up and took the door handle in his hand. If that happened he was getting the door thrown back in his face. Hard.
    The room Paul was in was dark and the light from the corridor shined in through the tiny lock. Paul looked out from his position but wouldn’t move to get a better view in case he made too much noise.
    A figure passed by the room, striding away down the corridor casually. Paul hadn’t been able to see the man’s face but his hands had been at eye level, and the right hand had been carrying Paul’s gun.
    Dean. Paul couldn’t help the swell of hate he felt rising inside for this man. The thought that Dean had just killed someone with his gun made him burn.
    That was it. They had to get out of here. Paul was going to go back, get Richard and get the hell out of