The Escalade accelerates, closing distance fast. I spot the van moving up on our left. Professional formation, but these aren't cops or feds. The gear's too expensive, the coordination too sloppy.
"Eamon," Sorcha's voice carries warning.
Ahead, a garbage truck blocks our lane. The driver waves like it's an accident, but his positioning screams setup. Behind us, windows roll down on the Escalade.
"Down," I bark.
Gunfire erupts. Our rear window explodes in a shower of glass. I jerk the wheel hard right, tires screaming as we careen down a side street.
"Fuck," Sorcha breathes, brushing glass from her hair.
"Irish mob doesn't usually get this fancy," I say, checking mirrors. "Someone paid good money for professional help."
The van appears at the far end of the street while the Escalade follows behind. They're boxing us in, forcing us toward the industrial district where screams won't carry.
I spot an alley between two buildings. Barely wide enough for a car, but it'll have to do.
"Trust me?" I ask.
Sorcha meets my eyes. "Do I have a choice?"
I aim for the gap. Metal screams against brick as we squeeze through, sparks flying from both sides. We burst into a loading area behind a row of shops.
"There," Sorcha points to an exit.
Before we can reach it, a third vehicle—black SUV—slides into position, blocking our escape. Four men pile out with guns raised. Not street thugs. These bastards move like they know what they're doing.
"Out. Now." I grab my Glock and roll from the car.
Bullets shatter windows as we dive for cover behind a dumpster. I count four shooters, plus however many are still in the vehicles. The gunfire is controlled, disciplined. Someone taught these assholes well.
Sorcha crouches beside me, her own gun steady in her hands. No shaking, no panic. Just cold focus as she returns fire.
"FBI training?" I ask between shots.
"Among other things." She puts two rounds center mass on the closest gunman. He drops hard. "You?"
"Marines. Then the family business."
The remaining shooters advance with covering fire. I estimate twenty seconds before they reach us. The dumpster won't stop rifle rounds much longer.
"Loading dock," I point right. "Better cover."
We move together, me laying down suppressing fire while she advances. Then she covers me. Natural teamwork, like we've done this before.
Behind concrete barriers at the loading dock, I reload and assess. Three shooters left, plus backup in the vehicles.
"This feels personal," Sorcha says.
"Someone wants us both dead. Question is who?—"
A grenade rolls toward our position. We dive in opposite directions as it explodes, ears ringing, vision blurred. The attackers rush forward through the smoke.
I tackle the first one before he can bring his rifle up. My knife slides between his ribs, finding his heart. He drops, gurgling blood.
Sorcha disarms the second gunman with moves that definitely didn't come from basic FBI training. Kicks his knee backward, breaks his wrist, takes his weapon. Efficient and brutal.
The third shooter has a bead on her back. I throw my knife, catching him in the throat. He falls, choking on his own blood.
