I promised you a sneak peek at the upcoming Target: Tungsten part of the upcoming Elite Ghosts set. If you loved Elite Metal, just wait till you see what happens next. If you haven't finished Elite Metal, let me just say Spoilers Ahead.
The black-garbed, anonymous soldiers who picked them up and dragged them back to the team moved forward. Three stood next to Poppy, the other four were beside Titanium.
How the fuck is he even alive?
“It’s time,” Titanium announced.
One by one, the ghosts removed their hoods—revealing face after familiar face.
As if a nuke obliterated all thought in the room, everyone stood frozen. Waiting to wake up. Maybe waiting for the shock to sink in.
Zinc, Tungsten, Tin, Nickel, Thallium, Lithium and Uranium were alive. Everyone who had “died” in Russia stood side-by-side. Everyone but Gold.
Tungsten stared at Copper. Their eyes locked before he slid his gray-green gaze to Gabriel then back to her.
Gabriel palmed Copper’s shoulder, the weight of his fingers grounding her as the world seemed to slip sideways. Merc moved in front of her a half step. Brad? Her mind couldn’t process the data she’d received. Brad. Alive.
Brad isn’t dead.
No. He died. When she’d stood inside the casino and an explosion tore it apart, silence accompanied the roar. A silence so profound, it threatened to swallow her. She remembered the first time the world swallowed her. When it spit her back out, Brad and so many others were dead. The second time, she’d woken beneath rubble and debris atop Cobalt—alone in the dark with a dead man.
No fire accompanied the second detonation, but the silence exploded all around her. Merc shifted more, breaking her line of sight, then the sound rushed in, flooding her. She couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t be there.
I can’t do this.
Chrome’s voice pulled the pin on the grenade. “What. The. Fuck…”
Jerking her shoulder away from Gabriel’s touch, she turned on her heel and walked away. Someone called her name, maybe Gabriel. Maybe Merc. Maybe the dead men. Who knew? She kept walking. A hand landed on her arm, but she twisted free.
They grabbed her again, but she slammed her foot down on the instep and then her elbow against the face of whoever it was. She couldn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything. Didn’t care.
She had to go.
As soon as she hit daylight outside the hanger, she turned to her Triumph. One minute walking, the next she all but ran. Her heart hammered like bullets fired from a modified Remington 700.
Somehow, the engine started, and she burned rubber accelerating.
The dead man suddenly blocked her escape. She swerved to avoid him then continued through the gate and to the main road.
The world swallowed her again. It had to have.