Tires squeal and Kane keeps firing. I hear glass shatter, hear shouts, but then Kane drops back with us. "Fucking got away.”
"Anyone have eyes on Rafael?" I shout over comms.
"No sign of him," Lash answers. "The container door is open but he never appeared."
A sudden barrage of gunfire echoes, followed by an answering fusillade.
"I'm going in," I hear Inez say. "Si, with me."
"Inez! Wait!" Silas shouts—I hear him on comms and as an echo.
"Fuck," I snarl, and scrabble into a sprint.
Gunfire blasts and rounds whip past me, but I'm beyond caring. I feel Kane and Chance on my heels, hear them firing, but I have thoughts only for Inez. That open door has "trap" all over it, and I fear her determination to see Rafa dead will override her caution.
"Dammit, she went in," Sol says over comms. "Si is with her."
"It's—maze—bolthole—escape—following—" static breaks up her words as the metal blocks her radio's signal.
"A Suburban just flew past us,” Toro says over comms. "Pugli has escaped—I saw only him, however. He is alone, and it looked like he was bleeding."
"With any luck, he'll bleed out," I hear Rev say.
I ignore this, sprinting as hard as I can around corners and down corridors. I must have badly miscalculated our route for us to be so many turns away from the target zone. Guilt and rage and shame ripple through me—I fucked up and compromised the mission.
Pugli escaped.
Rafa is escaping with Inez on his heels—and who the fuck knows what nasty surprises that snake has cooked up in that rabbit warren inside the containers.
"Inez!" I shout. "Come in!"
"Ren—on him—not letting him—away."
"Sophia!" I shout. "It's got to be a trap!"
Something flashes in the corner of my vision, and I drop and whirl on instinct—a round bites through my skin at my hip, glancing painfully off my hipbone at an incredibly lucky angle. It leaves me bleeding and in serious pain, but in no real danger. I return fire, taking my target in the groin. He stumbles, sags, drops to a knee, rifle lifting for another burst. A barrel chatters at my left ear, and I feel the heat of the barrel on my skin.
"You're hit, Ren," Chance says. "C'mon, man, let's get you to safety so I can patch you up."
I jerk out of his hold. "It’s nothing," I snap, "fuck off or follow me."
"Don't speak Portuguese, my guy," Chance rumbles. "But I take it that's a no to safety."
"These fucking bastards won't fucking die!" I shout, still in Portuguese, not caring who understands or who doesn't.
I lurch forward, my injured hip screaming in pain, blood trickling hot down my leg. My previous leg wound is screaming from overuse as well—my whole body is a mass of pain from the various places I've taken wounds, major and minor.
No fucking matter. Inez is all that counts.
A body appears, starburst flashing. A round whickers overhead, another past my left elbow. A third slices along the outside of my thigh. I drop him. And his buddy, who follows him around the corner. Kane drops the next two with bursts to the vests, and I double-tap them as I pass.
Now we're in the thick of things, with Lash's rifle blasting in the distance, taking out targets only he can see, and there's Sol in the doorway of a container, trading bursts with someone inside. Rev has his back to Sol's, Scarlett is off to one side firing at a target running along the tops of the containers while Saxon kneels nearby, firing in different direction.
We're surrounded and outnumbered, and they're closing in.
"I've got tangos inbound," I hear Fonz say. "Six of 'em, on foot, moving my way. I don't think they know we're here, though." A pause. “They see our vehicles. Fuck. I’ve gotta do something. Girls, stay put. Here's my side piece—"
I tune him out, focusing on reaching that doorway where Sol and Rev are, where Inez went.
