I fire first—drop one clean and hear the dreaded hollow click of an empty magazine.
Saint steps up beside me.
She lifts her absurd, stainless-steel, OSHA-violating rocket launcher to her shoulder, sights down the length of the tube, and says?—
“I’m about tired of these fuckers.”
Then she pulls the trigger.
I’ve never seen hot dogs do this.
They tear through bodies like shrapnel.
One slams into a woman’s eye socket and stays there, buried deep enough to hit brain. She drops instantly.
Another punches straight through a man’s neck—clean entry, clean exit, arterial spray painting the loading bay in a lovely shade offuck-you-red.
They all go down.
Alejandro stares at me, impressed despite himself. “Well… that was a lot more effective than I expected.”
Always doubting me.
I reload fast—my last shot, the final hit of propellant, and a bundle of rock-hard frozen hot dogs from the bag clipped to my side.
On our way out the door, I lay out the plan.
“Just distract him long enough for me to line up my shot. Then get the fuck out of the way. We’re riding out on that eighteen-wheeler.”
A lone assassin bursts out from behind a truck and hurls a knife at my chest.
It barely misses—grazes my arm on the way past, hot pain blooming as blood rolls down my skin.
Alejandro doesn’t even break stride.
He hurls his own knife, and his aim is better.
The blade sinks into the attacker’s eye with a wet, meaty thunk.
“Hijo de puta.” Alejandro mutters, stomping over to retrieve his knife.
The man collapses. Alejandro yanks his blade free, snags a discarded pistol off the ground, and surveys the carnage. It looks like a few assassins tookeach otherout—good. Less work for us.
He checks the gun’s load, satisfied, then adjusts the heavy rifle strapped across his back. Skippy’s severed arm is tucked under his like a grotesque baguette.
His gaze flicks to my bleeding bicep. “You good?”
“You know I’ve had worse. Let’s move.”
We fall into step like we never stopped.
We always worked well together. Could read each other before a single motion was made. And it looks like nothing’s changed.
Alejandro lifts the gun and strides forward, firing steady bursts—keeping Colt Harrington busy in the tower’s perch. Long legs, sure aim, rounds ringing off rusted metal.
I follow close, adding more accelerant to the tube, dropping to one knee as I shoulder the launcher. My sight line aligns perfectly.
Right over the top of Alejandro’s head.
