Armend turned on his heel, gun ready, flicking away drops of crimson that had trickled down his forehead to his strong jaw. He lowered it as two civilians entered his iron sights. Everyone else was screaming and running from the scene, a few even were in the corner heaving about  the dismembered fat man. Not these two, no, they were inviting him to dinner. 

	He looked back at the truck, his contact was dead, and his squad out in the warehouse, he was alone, and even if he felt a tinge of worry for his comrades, he needed to save his own hide. He sucked in a heavy breath and walked by the pair, waving the pistol casually, he tried to force his accent down, “lez go.” 

	He slapped the solid flak armor on his belly and nodded, “eat, yes?” Sirens started to blare louder, and his face stressed.