We’re dead, the same voice shouted, but now it was in the forefront of his mind. It was blaring, like a hammer rapping on his skull. “Shut the fuck up, everyone.” His healing was slowed a considerable amount. A few ribs were broken, probably a dislocated shoulder. The bullet was still lingering inside of him, his body agonizingly trying to heal itself.
He grunted, attempting to push aside the rubble, and wood that fell a top of him. The light soon seeped through the cracks as piles of debris fell away from him. A familiar voice had captured his attention. “The fuck are you doing out here,” he demanded, ignoring the pain to scramble up to his feet.
Adrian reached down, finger curled around the handle of his Desert Eagle and pulled it from it’s holster. “We need to get the fuck on out of here. This is a trap.”