When the alarms sounded he thought of his wife.
It was stupid, at this time she'd either be in bed, or curled up with some awful movie, a glass of red and a box of love substitute.
Security meant a lot of nights.
He was moving before he'd processed the thought. Heading instincitvely for the exits.
The lifts, predicatably, were inoperable. A milling gaggle of white coats. PhDs not helping now.
He slipped between, to the emergency stairs. Only twelve flights to the surface.
He climbed, door banging. The scientists following wheezing as he hit third.
The sounds changed, gargling to faint slumping thuds, as he approached eight.
Home stretch now, lungs burning. Not from the agent, please. Pistol unholstered he fired three clustered rounds into the door glass.
The snake hiss of gas followed him into the blank night.
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