Waverly clutched the plastic stock of his Bushmaster submachine gun so tightly his knuckles were white. Things were spinning rapidly out of control. His men had become wolves, and he was the leader of that ravenous pack. They were almost blind as he was to the consequences of their actions. But it had become far more than business. Archer Waverly meant to kill Doug Springer if it was the last thing he did.
The campus was more or less deserted for a Sunday afternoon. He wasn’t certain whether or not that was an advantage. It was what it was, he thought, tugging the bolt back and chambering a round.
“This ends here,” he told the men, standing in more or less of a defensive posture. “Teams of two. Ten thousand on top of the current bonus for the team that takes Springer out.”
“Then what?’ asked one of the men.
“Then I don’t care,” he growled in reply.
“Just get it done.”
Waverly and one of the other men waited as the first two teams headed off in different directions. When they were gone he motioned to the Tech Institute. Already he could hear sirens in the distance, coming from several different directions. He knew exactly where they were headed.
“Our boy is in there.”
“How do you know?” the young veteran contractor, a former artillery spotter, asked.
“We don’t have much time,” said Waverly. “Let’s get this done so we can get out of here and enjoy that money.”
“What about the others?”
Waverly looked at him with a cold empty stare. “What others?”
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