Thorne had no gun. No time. No plan.
A silent, armor-piercing round punched through the concrete above, missing the President by inches. Thorne didn’t think. He acted .
“Sir, stay low! Don’t move from that X!” Thorne barked, pointing to a spot on the floor where two maintenance hatches crossed. mr president unblocked game
President Cole smiled, pulled up a chair, and tapped “Start.”
Three figures rappelled down through the smoke. Thorne raised his sidearm. Pop. Pop. Pop. Three shots, three falls. But the fourth attacker was smart. He used his fallen comrade as a shield, advancing with a submachine gun chattering. Thorne had no gun
Then, the sound of heavy boots. Norwegian special forces flooded the room, their shouts echoing off the walls. The remaining gunmen dropped their weapons.
“Had to… keep you… unblocked, sir,” he whispered. “The game… doesn’t let you get scratched.” Three months later, President Cole visited Walter Reed Medical Center. Marcus Thorne was learning to walk again, his leg brace squeaking on the polished floor. A silent, armor-piercing round punched through the concrete
The main door exploded inward.