I’m here, Malichai said, and pressed his hand hard into Trap’s shoulder as he crouched down beside him.

Trap nodded and managed to let loose of the soil with one hand in order to cover Malichai’s with the other. Tremors wracked his body. It was impossible to move. He had no idea how he was going to make it back to the airboat.

I’ve got you, Malichai said as if reading Trap’s mind. I’m taking Trap back to the boat. Wyatt, tell Pepper to move it.

Wyatt sighed. He knew what it cost Trap to go through a wall, and going through one that thick had been dangerous. There was no way he could have shaken a hole in the wall without bringing down the building, but he still felt guilty when he realized just how bad Trap’s condition was. All of them felt it.

He touched the pressure bandage and his palm came away smeared with blood. Pepper, we’re all waitin’ on you, now. How close?

You can get out of there if you have everything you need. I’m pushing my way through to the outside right now.

Relief was tremendous. He had gotten as much information off the computers as he believed he was going to get.

Let’s shut this thing down. They may have heard the shots fired on the floor below us. No one’s come to investigate yet. Likely they were ordered to stand, but someone will come eventually.

Wyatt turned. The motion caused pain so severe he doubled over. The action saved his life. The blade of a knife missed his neck, swishing through empty air where his head had been. Wyatt dove forward instinctively, somersaulting and coming up to his feet. He groaned aloud when he saw his adversary.

“Not you. What the hell are you?”

One eye was gone and part of the skull, and he could see the abnormally thick skeletal structure beneath. Aside from the bony armor, the man still seemed human, so why hadn’t he bled out?

His opponent didn’t waste time answering. He rushed Wyatt, racing toward him, going up over one of the desks and leaping on a table, scattering bottles and glass in every direction with a kind of clumsy speed. He hit Wyatt with a solid left to the chest, right over the stab wound, even as the two bodies crashed to the floor. Wyatt’s chest seemed to disintegrate under that blow.

The only answer was, like Wyatt, he could somehow repair himself. Or… Whitney had found a way for the body to repair itself. He knew that some of the soldiers, before going out on a mission, were given a drug to speed up the healing process. The drug also could kill them. That was the more likely explanation.

Even with the super soldier raining blows on him, Wyatt’s brain refused to shut off. He was in survival mode, knowing this soldier could easily kill him. Each punch felt like a crushing blow. The man’s fists were battering rams, slamming into his ribs and the wound on his chest. Wyatt blocked as best he could, with pain ripping through his chest.

Fire burst through him, a dark, ugly place Wyatt rarely allowed himself to go. The surge of adrenaline through pure rage allowed him to heave the soldier off of him with enough strength to send him flying. Wyatt leapt to his feet and raced up the wall, launching himself at the soldier. He caught him in a flying scissors hold around the neck, taking him down hard, punching low, trying to find a way to disable him.

He hit the soldier twice, two hard punches to the groin and then leapt away, using his speed to keep the man from getting his hands on him. He knew he had to end it fast. Once the rage-driven adrenaline drained from his system, he was going to be in bad shape. He had to find a way to end the maniac once and for all.

Supersoldier turned to face Wyatt, as Wyatt moved back, his body coiled and ready for action. The soldier spit blood and grinned at Wyatt as he drew another knife from his belt. He ran straight at the Cajun, the knife low, going for the soft parts of the body.

Even injured, Wyatt was faster, his body a powerful machine, with the roped muscles and speed of a cat. He eluded the attack by side-stepping, spinning out of the soldier’s path to come in behind him and grip his neck. He wrenched hard, using his enhanced strength. The thick bone protecting flesh and muscle held.

The soldier stabbed down at Wyatt’s leg. The blade sank into his thigh as he wrenched at the soldier’s neck a second time, this time putting every bit of strength he had into the motion. The crack was loud in the room as the thick plate broke along with the neck. The man slumped in his arms, the dead weight nearly carrying him to the floor.

Pain washed over and through him. He swore softly and sank down to the floor beside the dead soldier. Whitney’s experiments were getting out of hand. Or perhaps this was one of his earlier projects he had nearly rejected and then kept for himself. Clearly the doctor wasn’t acting alone. He had set up several laboratories in various parts of the world, not just the United States, and he had others running them – others like him.

Draden’s hand pressed into his shoulder, holding him down. “Is it safe to pull out the knife? Did it hit anything vital?”

Wyatt felt a little light-headed. He was already leaking blood from the first wound. He forced the fuzziness out of his head and placed his hands around the blade, feeling for the wound. He shook his head. “He missed. Too busy worryin’ about me breakin’ his neck to see where he was stabbin’.”

“Malichai is packing Trap out, I guess I’ll do the same with you. Get out a pressure bandage. I’m pulling that knife out of you.”

Wyatt drew another pressure bandage from his field kit and took a deep breath before nodding. He let it out as Draden pulled the blade from his thigh. The air rushed from his lungs. His stomach lurched. His breath exploded out of his lungs and he gasped, trying to find more air.