The world turned white.
The flashbang detonated with a concussion that rattled my teeth and turned the night into a searing magnesium void.
"Down!" Cyprian roared.
He tackled me, his body a heavy shield slamming me onto the cold stone floor behind Marcus’s sarcophagus.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
The air above us shredded. Bullets chipped away at the marble tomb, sending razor-sharp shards of stone raining down on our heads. The noise was deafening—a chaotic symphony of automatic fire and the high-pitched whine of ricochets.
Oryn was returning fire, the suppressed thwip-thwip-thwip of his P90 fighting a losing battle against the heavy assault rifles outside.
"We're flanked!" Oryn signed, crouching low as a chunk of granite the size of a fist exploded next to his head. He reloaded with a smooth,
