CRACK!
CRACK!
"The container is opening!" Lash snaps over comms. "Move in, move in!"
"Kane, back to me!" I shout.
“I’m—a little…" I hear him over comms, broken up by the crackle of his rifle, "busy at the moment."
"Got it," Chance mutters to me. "Hold your position."
"Fuck that," I snap. "I'm moving in. You two catch up. I am not losing this motherfucker again."
Chance whacks me on the shoulder as he moves out. "Fine. Just don't die—I'd never hear the end of it from Inez."
I snort a laugh and jog forward. Gunfire echoes from every direction, overlapping and confusing. It's impossible to tell where any of it is coming from.
Something hums overhead, and then another yellow jacket buzzes past my ear, and then something hot slices past my knee. I throw myself to the side, shoulder slamming against the container so hard my arm tingles, partly numb; my momentarily weak hand means I miss my return volley, but it keeps his head down and gives me time to shake out the tingles, sprint forward on a diagonal to approach the corner wide. My mark is on one knee taking cover behind the corner; he wasn’t expecting me to run toward him, and my rounds catch him unaware. His skullrocks backward, and he slumps heavily against the container. I hear an engine roar and tires squeal.
"Pugli is escaping!" Lash shouts.CRACK! CRACK!His rifle barks. "Driver down. He's running for another automobile. We are going to lose him!"
Cursing floridly in Portuguese, I sprint forward. A tango rounds the corner and I drop him. Another. A third. I'm reacting automatically, operating on instinct. I reach the corner, gasping, panting, pause for a split second, and then pop out, rifle up.
I bump into a body—surprised brown eyes meet mine. I jam my barrel into his throat as hard as I can, and he stumbles backward, gurgling and gasping, clutching his bloody throat; I fire from the hip and take him in the vest. His eyes are wide and blinking and terrified. I grab him by the vest and frog-march him backward, hunkering behind him as the sound of automatic weapons fire grows louder and more confusing. I reach the end of the corridor; my unfortunate prisoner-slash-living-shield is scrabbling at me and his throat, in which my rifle barrel tore a nasty hole. He'd be fine with medical attention, but his fate is already sealed.
I round the corner to a barrage of gunfire that whips past me on both sides and overhead, stippling the man I've shoved backward. He jerks and thrashes, blood dribbling down his chin as a dozen rounds slam into his back, shoulders, and neck. I tossed a flashbang the second I shoved him away; I bolt back around the corner and cover my ears as the device detonates. Confused, pained shouts ring out, and I pivot out, toss a frag, roll back.BOOOOOM!The shouts become screams.
"Havin' all the fuckin fun without us, Ren?" Chance says, appearing through the streamers of smoke blown back to me by the currents of wind swirling through the maze. Kane is with him, bleeding profusely from a long, ugly cut slicing from his forehead diagonally down the bridge of his nose and past thecorner of his mouth. "Not as bad as it looks," he growls. "Just bleedin' a lot. Have a wicked new scar, though. C'mon, fuckers, let's dance."
He doesn't wait for an answer, rolling out from the corner and raking rounds across the corridor. I hear them clang off metal, whining as they ricochet, and I hear at least one thunk into something soft. Smoke swirls and clears, the dirty white smoke of the flashbang mingling with the darker gray smoke of the frag. Moans overlap as we jog through the mess—men lay bleeding from a myriad of wounds, others lay dying or dead.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!Lash's rifle speaks in threes.
The roaring engine cut off abruptly when Lash took out the driver, and now a new roaring sound bounces around the corridors.
"He’s heading east! Beta team, intercept!" Lash punctuates his words with a rapid trio of shots.
I hear tires squealing and the engine groaning. Something crunches against metal. I catch a glimpse of black and silver and glass as the Suburban rounds the corner, partially obscured by the still-swirling pall of smoke.
Tires thunk over bodies.
"LINE ABREAST!" I shout.
Kane and Chance lurch into position on either side of me, and we open fire at the SUV. The glass pocks and splinters and spiderwebs, and then shatters. Red sprays. The vehicle squeals and fishtails to a halt. The driver is slumped dead over the wheel, but the passenger doors fly open and men disgorge, firing back over the hood. One of the men is Pugli, who wields a subcompact machine gun, spraying rounds indiscriminately as he hides behind the massive black SUV.
"We have Pugli trapped!" I snap over comms.
Chance and Kane pour suppressive fire at the SUV, switching mags in smooth, practiced alternation while I wait and watch, hoping Pugli shows his face.
One of his men pops up over the hood and I drop him with a lucky shot. Another SUV rounds the corner and rakes to a halt at an angle, windows down, starburst muzzle-fire flashing. This buys the enemy enough time to force us back behind the cover of the corner, and I hear a door slam.
"No!" I shout. "FUCK!" I lurch, foolishly, out from cover, firing from the hip.
Bees buzz past my face. Something sharp and hot slices my cheek, scrapes my scalp. A powerful hand snags the back of my vest and yanks me backward—this is my salvation. I feel the quick sharp hot blaze of rounds skating millimeters over my nose as I topple backward. Chance yanks me like a sack of seed, one-handed, and bodily tosses me to safety while Kane rips off a long suppressing burst.
"You fuckingdick!" Chance shouts. "Getting your dumb ass killed won't help us!"
I struggle to my feet and rush forward again. "He’s getting away!"
