The elevator doors chimed softly, closing with a clinical, mechanical thud. Inside the cramped iron box, Mark stood frozen. His gaze was hollow, fixed on the two muscular men sprawled unconscious on the floor.
"Help me. We have to put them back so it looks like they're still on guard," Claudine hissed. Her voice was low but sharp.
Mark attempted to lean over. His trembling fingers brushed the coarse uniform of one of the guards. However, as he felt the warmth radiating from the man's body, his hands suddenly went limp. The guilt over the deaths of his comrades still haunted him. It paralyzed his motor nerves, leaving him without an ounce of strength.
Seeing Mark's hesitation, Claudine's patience snapped. With lightning speed, she lunged forward. Her small but powerful hand gripped the collar of Mark's shirt, jerking him upward until he was forced onto his tiptoes.
