Ultra | American

But he wasn't a machine. He was bleeding. His mind was splitting—the terrified stoner and the cold assassin screaming over control.

Phoebe came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and rested her chin on his shoulder. American Ultra

He broke a man's arm with a copy of Moby-Dick from the lost-and-found bin. He disarmed a second using only a tangled cassette tape and the centrifugal force of spinning it around his finger. He kicked a flashbang back through a doorway using a roller skate, timing the rebound to the millisecond. But he wasn't a machine

Mike blinked. "Uh. Dude. We don't sell pelicans. Or, like, bird seed. That's the other 7-Eleven." Phoebe came up behind him, wrapped her arms

"I don't know!" he yelled, tears in his eyes, as he accelerated backward through a hedge. "But I think I can do it again!"

The man’s smile didn't falter. He leaned closer. "Code Lavender. Thistle protocol. Wake up, Spartan."