Up until a minute ago, this had been one of Sam's easier gigs.  All he'd had to do was show up, shrug into a one size too small black t-shirt with "SECURITY" wriitten on it, and stand around.  The hardest thing he'd had to do was cope with a roudy drunk, and he'd handled that by the simple expedient of picking her up and carrying her out like a sack of potatoes.  Easy money.  The kind of thing an AWOL drifter really needed.<br/><br/>And now these paramilitary fucks were ruining it.<br/><br/>At first glance, he'd thought they were SWAT.  Thought the Army had located him.  But no.  SWAT would have just gassed the place.  And the Army would have deployed snipers and drones.  These fucks were dicking around with hostages, and declaring intent to kill people randomly if the mutants in the crowd didn't come forward.<br/><br/>Sam had been charitably described as having "poor impulse control".  He came forward.<br/><br/>"Four," announced the lead figure in tactical armor, sounding amused by the terror in his hostage's eyes.  He never made it to three, because Sam barreled through the crowd at nearly 20 mph and hit him. The tactical helmet and faceplate shattered under the force of the uppercut, and blood sprayed as he arced upwards.  Before he hit the ground Sam kicked him, launching his bidy at two of the other men in armor.