In the street, eight armed men shoot from behind two Hummers. I pick off three in the course of two full breaths which causes a short cease fire. Suds takes down another.
“Shit.” Behind us, footsteps run toward the back of the warehouse. I tap Suds’ shoulder and point to where the diplomat was standing a second ago. “Yan. He’s gone.”
When the echo of his slamming door fades, Suds shakes his head. “A guy like him? He won’t get far.”
The four in the street decide they’ve had enough and jump back in their vehicles.
“Let’s get ’em.” We’re halfway to the fence when blue circles dance around the faces of the warehouse buildings.
“Dammit. Feds are here.” I quickly place all my weapons on the ground by my feet as does Suds.
Then, with our fingers laced behind our heads, we wait.
