He swallows hard. “Mark. With a K.”
“Perfect, Kark.” I hook a fist in the front of his apron and haul him upright. “I need something flammable. Now.”
His whole head bobs like it’s on a spring. He points one trembling finger toward a side hallway. “C-cleaning station. Big red canisters. Very, um… very not approved for… anything.”
“Excellent. You’re coming with me Clark.”
Gunfire cracks somewhere behind me. Alejandro yells something dramatically unhelpful.
I pull the guy by the collar into a crouched sprint. He scuttles beside me like a terrified crabtrying to keep up.
We duck around a row of stainless-steel mixers. An attacker leaps out, barreling straight at us.
I don’t hesitate.
One shot and he drops hard onto the concrete.
Dude-man squeaks. Actually squeaks.
“Relax,” I mutter. “You’re not on the menu.”
He makes a broken noise that suggests he isn’t convinced.
Across the factory, Alejandro is fighting off two thugs at once—one hand throwing punches, the other trying to keep Skippy’s stroller from collapsing under its own structural despair.
“Saint!” Alejandro shouts. “A little help?! Emotional support?! Anything besides whatever the fuck you are doing!”
“I’m busy building a weapon of mass inconvenience!” I call back.
“Son of a— Ofcourseyou are!”
I drag What’s-His-Face around a stack of sealed boxes and slip us into the cleaning station. Rows of industrial degreaser canisters line the wall—huge, red, sloshing containers covered in warning labels that basically readDon’t you fucking dare.
Perfect propellant.
I shove the steel tube I stole earlier into my new friend’s arms. He nearly collapses under the weight.
“Hold that, Clint.” I say.
He nods like a bobblehead seconds from a nervous breakdown. “Mark.”
Whatever.
Time to build a rocket launcher out of degreaser, stainless steel, and the world’s least heroic sidekick.
And soon?
Frozen hot dogs.
God help the idiots who think they’re taking medown today.
Saint is somewhere below me, sprinting through the factory with a nerd who looks like he’s about to piss himself. A real catch. Meanwhile I’m up here dragging Skippy’s corpse-on-wheels through a battlefield.
Helpful.
So helpful.
The factory layout is a goddamn maze—machines, conveyor belts, metal railings, blind corners. I get funneled up a ramp and onto a set of catwalks high over the factory floor, the stroller rattling like it’s trying to shake itself apart.
