The sixteen remaining mercenaries stood in the bloody corridor, breathing fast, eyes wide as they stared at the four dead bodies at their feet. The kills were fast and brutal—too perfect, even for guys powered by the cult's red pills. Their weapons gripped in their hands.
A huge mercenary, bigger and tougher than the rest, turned to them, his voice a loud growl. "Don't be scared! We can take him! He's hiding in this maze. Four blocks, four groups. Split up, check every cell. Yell if you find him. This is for our freedom!"
The mercenaries shouted back, "Freedom!" lifting their weapons high, their fear buried under the hope of escape. In moments, they split into four groups, each heading into a block of the seventh floor's dark, twisty halls, their steps echoing off the wet stone.
In Block 3, four mercenaries moved carefully, checking the empty cells. One, a thin guy with a scarred face, whispered, "Should we really call the others if we find him?"
