Of all the places on earth we could’ve been dumped… this. A monument to liquefied mystery meat. I gave up most land animals years ago, but apparently fate decided today was the day to surround me with the worst form of meat imaginable.
My throat actually tightens just thinking about it. Between Skippy’s corpse cologne and the smell of industrial processed… whatever… I might legitimately puke for the first time in a decade.
I scan the lot for exits, but there’s nothing. No cars. No guards. Just a line of eighteen-wheelers backed against the loading docks. This must be the rear of the factory. Parking lot will be on the other side, of course. Figures.
I’m about to call back to Alejandro—tell him we split, Igo high, he goes low—when a brightpingsnaps off the metal shell of our train car.
A heartbeat later I hear the gunshot.
Well. So much for planning.
“Incoming!” I bark.
I grab Skippy’s janky stroller and shove it hard, wheels squealing as it rattles back down the train car toward Alejandro.
“Get him off the other side!” I shout. “I’ll draw fire!”
Alejandro immediately argues, because of course he does.
“I’m faster,” I snap. “Shut up and move!”
I’ve already got both guns out, loaded, warm, familiar. My heartbeat steadies. My breathing evens. Combat mode drops over me like a second skin.
I bounce once on my heels. Twice. A few fast breaths.
Then I jump.
I hit the ground in a roll, gravel scraping my shoulder, momentum snapping me upright. The second I’m vertical, I’m running. Hard. Fast. Zigzagging across open pavement as another bullet whines past my ear.
The eighteen-wheelers near the back doc—one of them is running—that’s my mark.
I sprint low, cut across open asphalt, and slide under the nearest abandoned trailer. Metal slams above me. The world narrows to shadow, grease, and the staccato echo of distant gunfire.
There’s movement on one of the rooftops near the north side. I don’t hesitate to allow him a chance to relocate. I ease out from behind the large tires and take one shot.
He drops without a scream—dead a second after he bullet left my gun.
I roll to the opposite side of the trailer, eyes scanning. Another shooter crouches on the roof of an adjacent warehouse. Amateur camouflage. Sloppy posture. Easy pickings.
Before I fire, I check Alejandro’s position. He’s at the far end of the drifting train car, the one we got sabotaged into. It’s still creeping along the track like a drunk snake, inching us deeper into this mess.
He sees me watching and coils back like a spring.
I match him for one heartbeat.
Two.
Then, we launch.
I burst into the open, firing twice. The rooftop shooter jerks, tumbles, vanishes. But more shots ring out. Three. Four. Maybe six of them circling the yard.
A little ambush party. Probably planning to split the bounty. Cute.
Probably why they rigged the train car instead of taking the hit inside it because they wanted the work to feel earned.
Well. Congratulations.
Saint James will make them fucking earn it.
