I count the breaths between my teeth and the distance to the drum like I always do, measure, aim, act. The world narrows to the weight of the pin between my teeth and the whisper of dust in the shaft.
One. Two. Three.
I flip the grenade up with my good arm and let it sail in a perfect arc, watching the metal bloom into darkness. It lands where the light dies, and then the mine forgets itself for a heartbeat, metal screams, and rock answers—a sound like the earth closing her teeth. The blast punches air out of the corridor, and for a second, the world is all sound and flying grit.
We don't wait to count the pieces. We roll, hard, behind the first drum within reach. Rock dust coats my tongue; a man screams like he’s been surprised by his own death. Boots thunder where men stood seconds ago; bodiesmove like ropes in a storm. I taste copper and feel the heat on my cheek where a pebble hit.
"Now," I hiss, and we explode from our cover.
The corridor is chaos. Men run like animals with their chests full of wrong decisions. My gun muzzle flashes in the dark. I put two into a man who surprises me within arm’s reach; his face goes soft and wet, and then nothing. Nico moves like a man who has been practicing for this his whole life, quick and uncomplicated. He covers angles I don’t see. He is good at violence, the way some are good at painting: it's ugly and precise.
We burst into the open, right into two men standing by a pickup truck. One turns and meets the business end of my pistol and goes down in a heap that smells like diesel and regret. The other lifts his rifle, and fire eats the space between him and me. Nico slams into the hood and guns the man down with a single, clean round.
We throw ourselves into the cab. I slam my door, which catches on something and tries to keep me out. I’ve hot-wired worse, all the while being drunk—man, I could go for that promised beer right now—and the truck obeys with a shudder and a curse.
We don’t make it three turns. A rifle cracks and claws at the air; a shot punches through steel and rips through Nico. He folds over—rib, lung, something bad—and his knees hit the floorboard before he can curse.
"Drive!" he presses out, more command than plea. The arm I was shot in clutches the steering wheel,and with my right hand, I help Nico back up into the seat. He finds and presses a dirty towel to the wound.
"Hold on," I yell at him. Not inclined to lose him now. I press the gas pedal all the way down to the floor.
"Shit." I curse.
"What?" Nico grunts.
"Incoming," I press out.
In the review mirror, I can make out countless trucks. The Mexicans must have called in the cavalry earlier, and now they're showing up.
"How many?" Nico asks, grunting.
"Too many."
I push my foot down harder, but the damn truck is already going as fast as it can. The mine drops behind us like a memory that can’t catch up. The night swallows our taillights, and then it vomits them back as three more trucks peel off the ridge and scream after us with hot anger and faster guns.
"How bad?" I ask about his wound.
He keeps his eyes forward and says, "Enough." One syllable. A whole inventory of pain.
He keeps the pressure on his wound with one hand, holding on to theoh shithandle with the other, turning in his seat. "They're gaining on us."
"Can you fly a plane?" I need to know. If I have to, I'll stay and let him take off, keep the bad guys busy so he can make his escape.
His dry coughing laugh is not the answer I was hoping for.
Ahead of us, I can see the plane where I left it. There was no reason for the Mexicans to mess with it. I'm confident it'll fly.
"Let me take the wheel, we both know we won't make it out of here together," Nico yells.
I throw another glance at the mirror. It looks like an advancing army, and they're gaining. There's not enough time for me to stop the jeep, drag Nico in, and fly us out of here. The only option is for him to drive the truck while I jump, counting on the cover of darkness. It'll seem as if we were going for the plane and changed our minds. They won't know that I got on board. There is no time to argue either.
"They might hurt me, but then they'll patch me up and keep me alive." He groans in pain as he scoots over while I lift my ass out of the seat to get on his lap. Foot still on the gas.
The truck bounces over a wash, and the fuckers behind us swerve to avoid something I can't see on the road. I lean to the side and move off of him, toward the passenger side.
"Well, this was fun, and at least it wasn't for nothing. Do me a favor and find Stephano," he grunts, our feet touching as he slides his under mine, and I loosen, pulling my leg with me. Away from him. "He'll get me out of here. Tell himtemporale,he'll know what it means. And… tell him to find the palm drive. It's in a safe deposit box, in Mexico City."
"Blyad," I curse even while I'm getting ready to open the passenger door and jump. "We'll get you out of here."
