G.H.O.S.T. Teams (Book 2) Shifters by Bobby Brimmer Read Free Book Online Page A

front of the gang.”
    “I have a feeling you won’t have to try too hard,” he winked.
    I couldn’t help but smile, “Two ones you say?”
    “You’re damn right,” Hunter smiled.

CHAPTER 5
     
     
    We all jumped into the elevator and rode it down to sublevel six. Stepping out and taking the first right led us into the Armory. The entrance area wasn’t that big, maybe ten by twenty feet, with boring grey walls. A metal counter ran all along the far side and separated us from a much larger room beyond. Behind the counter were racks and racks of weapons. Any blade, bow, or firearm you could think of seemed to be on display. The room had a cavernous feel, getting dark rapidly as you moved back from the counter. One could almost imagine that the racks went on forever. During my previous visits, I had been unable to discern the room’s actual size as the staff never seemed to turn on any lights when they headed back to retrieve equipment. Rather, they just faded away into the darkness. I didn’t know if there was some weird shadowy cloaking-device or if the staff could see in the dark. It was a mystery that I would care enough about to solve one day, but not today. 
    I’d been seeing a lot of the armory lately, ever since I began letting them equip me. When I first started with the GHOSTs, I was supplying my own weapons. While I was happy to do so, bureaucracy reared its ugly head. The number of regulations and policies that one had to deal with in order to bring their own gear was staggering. If it had just been a few personalized effects, I might not have minded. But I go through a lot of blades in the course of a day. Most of these weapons get destroyed, through no fault of my own. You’d be amazed what Troll hide does to a shuriken. Those poor throwing stars never stand a chance.
    So, in the interest of removing any and all paperwork from my daily life, I started using the armory to equip myself with stock weapons. It wasn’t a big deal. I am not sentimental about blades, especially considering how often I destroy a sword. I care more about craftsmanship and quality. As luck would have it, when it comes to weapons, our armory was top notch. Apparently when you combine societies that have been perfecting melee weapons for thousands of years and give them access to modern metallurgy technology, amazing things happen. Plus, the staff was always entertaining. Our current entertainment was going to be supplied by the guy in charge of the armory.
    His name is Elvis and he kind of looks like a six-foot tall humanoid ferret. He is a Zobel, a race of anthropomorphic martens, which I am pretty sure is just a fancy name for weasels. Jet-black poufy hair covers the top of his head and runs down in front of his ears like a pair of sideburns. The rest of his body is fairly uniform, with silver-ish fur throughout. Whiskers surround a black nose, which sits at the end of a small snout. Black eyes stare at you from beneath his round furry front-facing ears. He was wearing a red Hawaiian shirt and a pair of blue jeans, his bushy tail sticking out of the back. The fur on his hands was so short as to be almost unnoticeable, giving his fingers a pinkish tone as the skin underneath shone through. They reminded me a bit of rat hands as he pointed a greeting our way.
    “How ya doin’?” he asked.
    If you have ever heard someone do a bad impression of Elvis Presley’s voice, then you can imagine what our Elvis sounded like. Since Mother Nature clearly has a sense of humor, this was no impression, but his actual voice. Coupled with the fact that he has naturally occurring sideburns, he was practically destined to worship the King, which he did with pride. Part of that pride meant that he always had the King’s music playing in the background.
    “We’re great, Elvis. What that’s playing there?”
    “That would be uh, Blue Hawaii. I decided to make things uh, tropical today baby,” he replied.
    “I like it. Have you met the kid