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the head.  They weren't silver bullets, but they were enough to put the creature to sleep permanently. 
     
    Glancing from side to side, Jackson walked back to where his M-22 had fallen and picked it up, checking that the weapon hadn't been seriously damaged.  Everything looked fine, although he wouldn't know for sure until he tried to use some of the advanced functions.  The M-22 was designed to be robust, but it had taken one hell of a bang when he’d been thrown away as easily as a Marine would throw a grenade.  It was a shocking reminder that superhumans rewrote the laws of combat just by existing.
     
    “I’m clear,” he said, hoping like hell that the communications system hadn't been broken.  His goggles had picked up a nasty scratch that was interfering with the HUD display.  “One mutant down; I say again, one mutant down.”
     
    “Noted,” the Sergeant said, dryly.  “Come and relieve one-seven.”
     
    Jackson lowered his weapon before walking into the offices, knowing that it was alarmingly easy for friendly fire to kill operatives in the confines of close-quarter battle.  The last thing he needed was to be mistaken for a terrorist and gunned down by one of the members of his own team.  Inside, one terrorist had been captured and secured by the operators, who had also secured the small group of CEOs and secretaries.  They all looked too stunned to argue about their treatment, but Jackson doubted that would last.  There were plenty of civilians who would complain, afterwards, about how the military had dealt with them. 
     
    One-seven—Basil Adamson, who’d introduced himself as a hard-entry specialist—was guarding the terrorist prisoner by keeping one foot on his neck and his gun pointed at the terrorist’s head.  It seemed a little excessive, but after fighting the mutant, Jackson knew better than to assume that any of the terrorists were ever truly secure.  They’d have to wait to do a full body-scan before they knew for sure that the prisoners were human—or superhuman.
     
    The building shook as gunfire echoed through the atmosphere.  “We have to keep the former hostages here for the moment,” the Sergeant said, calmly.  “One-nine; keep an eye on the prisoner while the remainder of us go to assist Beta Team.”
     
    Jackson blinked.  “You’re leaving me here on my own?”
     
    “You think you can't handle ten zip-cuffed men and women?” the Sergeant demanded.  “There are no terrorists above the third floor, so all you have to do is mind him until we call and relieve you.”
     
    “Yes, Sergeant,” Jackson said, silently grateful that the mask kept the embarrassment from his face.  Assuming, of course, that the Sergeant was right when he said that there were no terrorists anywhere near him.  Team One just wasn't large enough to sweep the building properly, even without splitting into three teams.  “I can handle it.”
     
    The Sergeant nodded and led the other two men out of the room, leaving Jackson alone with the former hostages—and the prisoner.  As far as he could tell, the terrorist was completely stunned, unable to move—or too terrified to move.  Terrorists were really grown-up bullies, he knew; they never picked on people who could actually fight back.  The CEOs looked scared, apart from one who seemed angrier than anything else.  How dare the Green Warriors assault his headquarters and take him prisoner?
     
    Or perhaps he was a terrorist.  Their HUDs had been programmed with the names and faces of everyone who should be in the building, but the facial recognition software was nowhere near as clever as the geeks who’d designed it seemed to think.  Judging from some of the reports Jackson had read, it had been known to identify people as outsiders—and therefore suspected terrorists—even when those people had a perfect right to be in the building.  He had to keep an eye on everyone, not easy when his earpiece was filled with chatter