His mind was owned by this animal. His body was driven by instinct.
All he could do was buckle in for the ride.
When the Russians were no longer screaming in pain, their fingers no longer twitching, O’Neil’s team looked back at him. Blood splatters covered their faces and the ragged remnants of their uniforms.
If he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought those SEALs were ordinary Skulls instead of his brothers-in-arms.
“To the roof,” he said. They lunged up the sides of the shipping containers, the Moroccan prisoners following their lead.
O’Neil felt stronger than he ever had in his life. Even with pain rocketing through him with every jump and every reaching claw, he could sense the power coursing beneath his skeletal armor, churned on by a freshly awakened bloodlust.
Peering toward his left, he saw Miguel stacking up with the Hunters at an entrance to the warehouse. Miguel shot him a hand signal, telling him the Hunters were ready.
Soon as O’Neil was on the roof, he waved back. The other Hybrids flooded around him and positioned themselves around the skylights. He worked his claw between the rubber lining of the skylight, prying it up.
Loeb and Tate stood beside him, their ribcages expanding with each heaving, rattling breath. Hassan led the Moroccans at another skylight. They had already removed the cover, ready to jump down from the roof and into the warehouse.
Toward the middle of the warehouse floor, between shrink-wrapped machinery and crates and pallets, O’Neil saw two individuals surrounded by a ring of soldiers. Those two in the middle, blood covering their faces, must have been the Hunters they were supposed to save.
O’Neil spotted a few bodies in the warehouse. Smelled them. Could practically taste the blood.
Looked like they had come just in time. Just the thought of what was about to happen set O’Neil’s heart racing, thumping against the inside of his overgrown ribcage.
He looked at his SEALs. Each wore a mask of gruesome determination, more frightening than any monster O’Neil had seen in the States. There was no question that every one of them was prepared for this moment of retribution.
No matter the cost.
His vision already going red, the anger flooded through his body, reaching even into the tips of his claws. He could not help but snarl, feeling the call of the wild, wanting nothing more than to rip back his head and howl.
Instead, he looked at his brothers and said simply, “Let’s roll.”
-32-
O’Neil leapt from the skylight to the catwalk around the warehouse and down to the floor barely conscious of his own actions. He felt as if he was a biological homing missile. All he had to do was set his sights on the Russians and his body did the rest of the work.
The other Hybrids hit the ground around him, each breaking into a sprint as soon as they did. Gunfire exploded from every direction. From the Russians. From the Hunters in the middle of them, and from Miguel’s group bursting in through another doorway.
One of the Moroccan hybrids went down in a hail of bullets as they ran toward the Russians. Another Russian soldier landed a shot that blasted away part of a Hybrid prisoner’s face. Bone fragments and tissue sprayed away from the shot, but the prisoner kept running, even with half its jaw missing.
The Hybrid launched itself at the Russian who had shot him, tearing at the man with an unholy fury. Other Hybrids rushed past the crates and other cargo. They leapt between shipping containers and crates at the soldiers like a pride of lions descending on a herd of frightened gazelle.
Bullets rang out against the walls of warehouse or cut through the crates. Some rounds connected with the Hybrids. The crack of breaking armor and falling bodies echoed from every direction.
O’Neil aimed toward the Russian closest to him. The man had his rifle aimed at another Hybrid, squeezing the trigger. His rifle shuddering against his shoulder, eyes wide with fear.
With every sense tuned into his prey, he saw the beads of sweat rolling down the man’s forehead. The vessels bulging in his neck. His clenched jaw. Could practically smell the man’s fear.
O’Neil lunged with his claws outstretched. The man swung his rifle around on O’Neil. But it was already too late. O’Neil’s claws slid into the soft flesh of the man’s throat, ripping into the cartilage and muscle and vessels. Blood spurted up around O’Neil’s claws as he tore into the bastard.
The man tried to push back, to kick O’Neil off, and hit him with his rifle.
But no pain the man could dole out was worse than the feeling of his own bones squirming through his body. This man could do nothing that would stop O’Neil’s attack short of killing him. The vicious drive of aggressive animal instinct erupted from his every strike and blow, driving him to destroy this damn soldier.
O’Neil’s claws connected again and again. Warm blood splashed across his face. It pooled around the concrete. He continued his attack until he realized the soldier had been dead for the last several strikes, the man nothing but an unrecognizable mess.
Chaos filled the warehouse as soldier and Hybrid met. Prisoners collided into the soldiers with rabid ferocity. O’Neil saw another Hybrid go down. As soon as the prisoner’s body met the floor, another leapt over him. His talons landed hard against the chest of the soldier responsible for the other Hybrid’s death. The Russian screamed as he fell backward. His rifle fell from his hands, and his head thunked hard against concrete.
Another soldier took a knee. Started to turn his rifle on Loeb.
O’Neil threw himself at the man, hitting shoulder first. The mans’ rifle went off. Bullets lanced toward the ceiling.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” the Russian cried as O’Neil tore at the man’s face. He tried to block the claws with his arms, succeeding only in turning his arms into ribbons of shredded muscle and skin. “Please!”
“You did this to us,” O’Neil said, his words darker and deeper than he had intended.
The Russian took his last rattling breath surrounded by spreading blood as O’Neil chose his next target.
As the gunfire grew more sporadic, the screams grew louder. Everything seemed to blend together in a frenzied blur. O’Neil and his team descended into the ranks of the soldiers as they scattered and ran for their lives.
The Hybrids gave them no quarter.
O’Neil blasted into soldier after soldier. These people had turned his body into a living weapon, and he was determined to show them just how good of a job they had done. Each time he felt another soldier die beneath him, he felt a wave of grim satisfaction. Those moments he allowed the beast within him to take over, the pain that made every second its own individual torture session disappeared.
Violence was his only escape from the terrifying agony.
Between targeting the enemy soldiers, he did his best to protect Tate and Loeb and Stuart and Henderson and the rest of the SEALs. Threw himself at any soldier that so much as looked at the other SEALs.
Until finally the deed was done.
Nothing was left of the Russians but their scattered, bleeding corpses.
O’Neil stood among the Hybrids as they searched the room, their eyes hungrily seeking other targets. Miguel and his crew stood warily beside the carnage. A couple changed their magazines, the rest roving the warehouse with their gun barrels, waiting to see if another soldier would dare pop up.
The two mercs that had been at the center of the chaos were now surrounded by bodies. One of the Moroccan prisoners stalked toward them, claws outstretched.
“Stop!” O’Neil said.
The Hybrid didn’t listen. Kept moving forward. Probably giving in to the same bloodlust, the same shower of chemicals flowing through O’Neil, too.