Luke grimaced and shook out his numb right arm.
What the hell had Marcus given him?
Was this thing even a handgun?
The second he pulled the trigger, a brutal kick slamd up the grip and nearly yanked his whole arm backward. Without his body enhancents, that single shot would've snapped a normal wrist clean in two.
He didn't waste ti. He flipped the barrel open like he'd done it a hundred tis, let the thumb-thick, smoking casing clatter to the floor, then grabbed another massive round from his vest and slamd it ho.
Only after he was reloaded did he raise the pistol and step carefully toward the downed cultist.
Up close, the damage was exactly what the recoil promised.
The left half of the man's body—from shoulder to hip—was gone. Blood, at, and shredded black robe were sared across the concrete in one grotesque sar.
The short barrel must've dumped every ounce of energy straight into the target.
Just when Luke figured the guy was finished, the cultist twitched.
"Heh-heh… the bishop was right. Your flesh is flawless. Join us."
The man pushed himself up on one ruined arm, chest heaving.
"One initiation ritual and you'll unlock every last bit of power hidden inside that body."
Luke's eyebrows drew together. These freaks were completely unhinged. He'd just blown half the guy's torso off and the bastard was still trying to recruit him?
No thanks. He had zero interest in whatever sick ceremony would turn him into the next Myers.
Luke didn't bother listening to another word. He raised the pistol again and blew the rest of the upper body into red mist.
He wasn't about to waste ti on talk of "latent potential." He had the panel. Steady grinding was all he needed. No shortcuts, no dark rituals.
"Enough already."
He lifted the gun one more ti and pressed the barrel against the still-muttering head.
BOOM!
The cultist's skull vanished in a spray of blood and bone. The factory went quiet.
"Clarice, we're leaving. They already know we're here."
The words had barely left his mouth when his feet locked up.
The main entrance was suddenly packed with black-robed figures. Hooded heads, identical robes, standing shoulder to shoulder like a wall. Every exit was blocked.
Their faces stayed hidden in shadow. Living people, but radiating the sa cold, lifeless aura as mannequins.
Clarice burst out of the office right then. She took one look at the crowd and her face tightened.
This was bad.
"Police business! Get the hell out of the way!"
Luke barked the order, but the robed figures didn't even twitch. No reaction. Not a single facial muscle moved.
They were like puppets.
To test it, Luke snapped the shotgun up and fired into the air.
BOOM!
The deafening roar left his own ears ringing, but the cultists stood perfectly still.
"What the actual fuck…"
Luke was about to charge forward and shove one aside when a long, eerie flute note drifted in from sowhere deep in the factory.
Every robed figure snapped into motion at once.
The closest one launched himself straight at Luke.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
A burst of automatic fire tore the cultist apart in mid-air before he could land. He hit the ground in a heap.
Luke glanced back. Clarice stood there with her submachine gun smoking, eyes hard.
"Confird cultists. Engage with lethal force."
"Good."
Luke grinned. A partner who kept her cool under fire was worth her weight in gold.
He turned to face the charging swarm, holstered the slow-reloading cannon, and yanked the Remington off his back.
At this range the shotgun was pure murder. The first cultist through the door ca apart in two ssy halves.
"These assholes are way too friendly, Clarice. Find cover!"
Luke fired on the move, backing toward the pillars while Clarice sprinted up to a second-floor catwalk. She used the heavy machinery as a shield and started picking off targets with precise bursts, giving Luke breathing room.
The front line of cultists kept dropping, but the ones behind just climbed over the bodies and kept coming.
"Are these things even human anymore?" Clarice called down, voice tight.
"They better not be," Luke shouted back, "or we're gonna have a serious humanitarian problem on our hands."
He dumped the last shell, reloaded from his vest with practiced speed, then leaned against a thick concrete pillar and opened fire again.
BOOM!
A fan of buckshot shredded the legs of the three closest cultists. They dropped without a sound, then imdiately started clawing their way back up.
Luke was in the zone now. The maxed-out Police Marksmanship specialty made the spread feel like an extension of his own arm. Every shot covered maximum ground.
He deliberately kept the barrel low, sweeping legs, turning the floor into a tripping hazard with minimal ammo.
"Luke, right side!"
Clarice's warning snapped out just in ti. Luke spun without looking, swung the shotgun around, and blasted the cultist coming in from his blind spot. The man flew backward like he'd been hit by a truck.
"Goddamn lunatics!"
Luke kept moving between the pillars, enhanced speed and reflexes making every attack look like it was happening in slow motion. He fired, reloaded, fired again—smooth, relentless, no wasted movent.
Brass piled up around his boots. Bodies piled up faster.
Finally, after Clarice dropped the last cultist with a clean headshot, the factory fell silent.
Then, from the deepest shadows, slow applause echoed.
Clap… clap… clap…
A towering figure in a black robe stepped into the light.
"Perfect flesh. Unbreakable will. And that beautiful, unwavering killing intent."
The deep, raspy voice carried across the empty space.
"Officer Luke… you exceed even what the bishop predicted. You were born to be one of us."
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