Captain Taylor Turn 12

You dive under the conference table, clonking the wooden leg on your way past with the rucksack. Fumbling, you produce your handgun and train it on the door. You strain to hear what is going on, but all you can hear is your heartbeat. But, then, footsteps go past the conference door, and you can hear the rattle of keys in a lock. Snippets of conversation waft through the intervening doors…

"Wilkommen, Oberfuhrer Galt… Ja, Projekt Kimera ist gut. Herr Walters ist zeht gluchlich… Andromeda? Wir haben nicht… Biocarb? Am nachsten woche…" and the voice recede again.

Again you can hear your own heartbeat against the stillness of the night. After five minutes you dare to move and wonder why all your limbs are cramping… You stand and shuffle over to the lectern where the big black book lies. Shutting it, you stuff it into the rucksack, hoping that the seams will hold under the strain!

Leaving the room you glance both ways and head through the security door into the main hall. Again, luck seems to be with you, and there are no guards present. Outside you pause, hoping that you can’t really see the first light of dawn on the horizon. It’s quite a walk into town… you head for the fence.


Damn! Where did he come from! You stop.

“Turn around. Slowly…”

This guy watches too many movies. You start to turn around when suddenly you hear a “Phut! Phut!” sort of sound, followed by what sounds like a sack of potatoes hitting the floor. You spin round to see a guard dead on the ground. Something lands at your feet and you spin round again. In the house, a window shuts. Probably one of the guestrooms you guess. You glance down and can just see something in the grass. Reaching down you pick up a small lapel pin. The emblem looks like a crowned skull, leering up at you.

“Weird” you mutter to yourself, and take more care as you approaches the fence. From there, it’s a simple hop over the fence and then a four-mile jog to the nearest town. By the time you get there your heart is threatening to pound through your ribs, but at least you made it…

“I really must report in…”

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