Next week, Skull Island eXpeditions is about to release LEVEL 7: The Judas Protocol by Nathan E. Meyer. For years, the United States has harbored aliens—the Ghin—to benefit from their advanced technologies but at a dangerous and immoral cost.

Now enemy Russian combatants have come in search of that same alien knowledge, prepared to kill anyone who stands in their way of acquiring the traitorous alien who can give it to them. In response, the U.S. government unleashes a special ops operation, the five-man Disco Team—to “deal” with both the Russians and the Ghin. In this exclusive excerpt, Disco Team is deep within the underground facility where at least one violent enemy waits for them…

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Smoke hung in a haze. Several of the overhead track lighting fixtures hung damaged or shattered, causing spotty illumination in the cavernous underground hangar. Rends in the walls and ceiling left conduits and wires exposed and dangling. Arcs of surging electricity showered sparks.

Two GEV craft were smoldering, bullet riddled, while a Pave Low helicopter, painted black and devoid of identifying insignia, burned, fully engulfed in flames. It was readily apparent the fuel tank had already exploded and several aircraft sat blackened like the broken exoskeletons of giant insects. A few motorized Segways lay overturned among the wreckage like forgotten toys.

The air hung foul with oily smoke and the stench of burning metal, rubber, and human flesh. Bodies of Marine security personnel in unmarked battle dress uniforms, civilian scientists, and the occasional hybrid lay scattered around. Except for the battery whine of a damaged Segway and the hissing crackle of exposed electrical fires, the room was quiet.

The team could hear the hanger’s primary lift settle heavily into place behind massive blast doors. They waited, but the blast doors didn’t open; instead, a red light above a passkey pad flashed hypnotically over and over.

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““We’re locked on this level until we find a key to get the hell moving again,” Hernandez said. “So, let’s sweep and clear this hangar and come up with one. Copperhead, clear a path to the door. Jackhammer, brace yourself in overwatch. LT, concentrate, see if you can pinpoint any greasy alien bastards. Navarro you and I clear the flanks, keep the drone on key.”

“Copy that,” Navarro answered.

Settling the stock of his M18 into his shoulder he began slowly making his way toward an area on the deck to where several dozen blue industrial barrels were stacked. He caught a whiff of spilled diesel and lubricant grease as he crept closer to the cache. Above the pile of barrels he saw the silver gray metal rectangle of a vent.

For a second he thought he heard the click of something hard on aluminum. He cocked his head to listen. Silence. After several long moments he turned away.

“Flank clear,” he said.
“Flank clear,” Hernandez echoed.
“Elevator loading zone secured,” Miller said. “FYI, boss, I don’t even think explosives would breech this blast door.”

DeGroot shifted from one foot to another, M62 up and ready. He turned in a slow circle, sweeping the big weapon’s muzzle around as he did. “I got nothing but a bunch of dead people scattered all over hell,” he said. “Staff or crew, I’d guess. Nobody breathing.”
“LT,” Hernandez said. “What’s the story?”
“I’m getting something,” the countermeasures specialist whispered, voice hoarse with stress.
“Can you give us some guidance?” Hernandez asked. “The drone isn’t picking up crap.”
There was a long moment of silence while the unit XO held his answer. One hand pressed against his heavy helmet, the other held his P100 braced against his hip. He turned slowly like a radar dish. Suddenly he stopped.
“Jesus Christ,” he swore. “I don’t know how close they are, but they’re closing in on us fast.”
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Positioned on the perimeters of the room, Hernandez and Miller backed away, weapons coming up. Navarro took a step, scanning the cement wall in front of him. His eyes went to the vent. Behind his Heads-Up Display visor, his eyes widened in realization.

“Watch the vents!” he snarled. “And check those corpses—we need a passkey to get out of here.”

Following his own advice, he looked up, scanning the vents near the ceiling, and froze. Behind the shadowed slits of a grated faceplate he saw a misshapen, emotionless face peering between the slats just as the vent burst from the wall as if shot from a cannon. The thing grunted strange sounds over its shoulder that were answered by a chorus of equally incomprehensible predatory snarls.

“Contact! Contact!” he bellowed, trying to bring his weapon into play before the clones hit him.

Instantly, a horde of twisted forms spilled from the opening, surging down the wall and onto the barrels, barking strange, mewling sounds of hunger from twisted mouths.

Navarro sited on the lead creature. Moving with a frightening dexterity, the gray-skinned things surged toward him, fingers twisted into claws, the black orbs of their eyes rolling with bloodlust.

He twisted onto his side and triggered the M501. Double-ought buckshot spiraled into the closest creature. The thing fell dead, its momentum carrying it forward until its hot corpse slammed into him.

Another one leaped, arms stretched out, fingers curved down so the blades of its nails pointed like daggers. Catching it with the sole of a big boot, Navarro savagely kicked the thing back. It left the ground, coming down hard on its back, shrieking in rage as it did. A tight three-round burst tore out its throat. Twisting around, Navarro cut loose on them all, spraying a thick knot of rushing creatures.

Behind him more vents violently shot outward, and clones swarmed like angry ants from a hill. Both the sentry drone’s and DeGroot’s weapons erupted, triggering sustained bursts.

Lead swathes of bullets cut through the air, punching through the smoky haze and slamming into the scurrying bodies of the disfigured clones. Great gouts of blood spewed, splashing walls and leaving green-black pools on the floor. Shrill screams of agony filled the chamber, drowning out the straining curses of the men.

Miller crouched with his back to the damaged door. Using the open sights on his P100, he smoothly tracked his barrel across the room, executing the monstrosities using single, well-placed shots. Each time he pulled the trigger, another died.

In the darkness behind him beyond the gap in the metal door, a pair of dark eyes slowly appeared. The point man shot two clones, dropping them in mid-leap as they threatened Hernandez across the room. Suddenly a gigantic arm, easily twice as large an appendage as those of the clones, thrust through the opening.

A massive hand snatched Miller up and slammed him backward. The corporal grunted as he hit the uneven edge of the door and the ballistic armor on his shoulders dented. His helmet slammed back under the whiplash force and smacked into the frame.

Dazed, he went momentarily limp and his carbine slipped from the fingers of his gloved hand. It swung around his hip, momentarily out of reach. Adrenaline dumped into his system and he lunged wildly, scrambling to right the weapon.

The thing holding him growled with bestial fury and slammed him against the doors again, his hand reaching for the carbine momentarily crushed against the metal, before jerking him off his feet and into the air. Helpless, Miller cursed in shock and pain.

Again and again, the horror brutally battered him as he struggled to extricate himself from its grasp. A second twisted hand appeared, and claws raked at his armor, leaving deep scratch marks like trenches.

He bent, lifting his right leg up so high the knee was beside his face. His fingers found the grip of the large hunting knife he kept there, despite regulations, and he jerked it free. It was a wicked, lethal instrument with a blued blade and a long, shallow blood groove.

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Twisting, he slashed the knife across the arm clawing at his throat. Something howled in the darkness and the arm withdrew, a trial of blood behind it. Miller turned and stabbed, catching the other arm holding him in the crook of its elbow.

As the blade cut deep, slicing into muscle and severing sinew, the thing let out a horrendous, animal shriek. The hand holding him went slack, and Miller dropped to the floor. Rolling, he dropped the combat knife and swung around his P100.

Though he couldn’t see his target, he shoved the bull pup carbine’s muzzle through the opening and opened fire with a long, sustained burst. A hand shot out from the hole and snatched him by the leg.

He flailed as the creature tried yanking him back through the tear in the elevator shaft. The staccato cough of his silencer was drowned out by the sound of his bolt continuously racking in rapid succession, and a fan of fire ignited around the muzzle.

“There are too many,” Williams snarled into the unit’s comm links. “They have Ghin incubation tanks here. Somebody must’ve dumped them to account for all this shit. They’re like animals.”

“Dumb, hungry, mean animals,” Navarro answered.

“Let’s grease these rejects,” Miller added.