Cross adjusted his aim, shifting the scope from Rodriguez’s temple to the cartel man’s chest. His breathing slowed, muscles coiling, waiting for the moment when the decision would no longer be his to make.
Then the cartel man spoke—low, sharp Spanish that dripped with threat. Rodriguez answered with something just as biting. Neither smiled.
“What did they say?” McGuire asked.
“Miguel is asking Rodriguez about the money and if he has anything else he didn’t mention. Rodriguez told him to go fuck himself,” Tessa supplied in a whisper.
“Here we go,” Patch said.
Miguel’s hand snapped up—A gunshot cracked like thunder in the cavernous warehouse. The first bullet took the money man square in the chest, sending him stumbling backward with the bag of cash. For a split second, nobody moved. Then the room erupted.
“Down!” Cross barked.
Tessa dropped, rolling behind a stack of reinforced pallets McGuire had rigged earlier with sandbags and shrink-wrappedboxes of printer paper. Splinters flew as rounds slammed into them, the thud of lead hitting dense material.
Cross squeezed the trigger twice, dropping the shooter who’d taken out the money man. Through the scope, he saw Rodriguez run to Drew and shove her toward another henchman, barking orders that were swallowed by the roar of return fire.
“Stone, three o’clock!” Patch yelled from atop the semi, his rifle spitting fire into the catwalk above, killing one gunman. Stone whirled and fatally shot a second guy entering through a window. The body fell to the warehouse floor with a sickening thud.
Cross shifted, scanning for a shot. The cartel men weren’t retreating—they were fanning out, trying to flank Tessa and Rodriguez along with Drew. One was already moving toward the loading bay door. If he got outside, they’d have more trouble than they could handle. Cross squeezed the trigger, but the guy ducked behind the vehicles, and Cross missed.
“McGuire, door!”
“On it!” McGuire darted from cover, sliding into position behind a stack of steel sheets leaning against the wall. Sparks flew as bullets ricocheted, the sharp whine making Cross grit his teeth.
Rodriguez ducked behind one of the SUVs, firing blindly over the door. “You’re dead, Tessa!” he screamed.
“Get in line!” she yelled back, then popped up to fire three quick shots before hunkering down again.
Cross’s scope tracked to Drew—her hands still bound, but she’d found the edge of the pallet stack and was crawling toward the narrow gap between it and the wall. Good girl.
More gunfire. Rodriguez’s men were shooting at the cartel guys, who were returning fire. Bodies were dropping. They all looked confused, as if they didn’t know who to shoot at.
“Patch, keep their heads down. I’m moving,” Cross said.
He slung his rifle over his shoulder, drew his sidearm, and slipped down the stairs to the warehouse floor. Gunfire cracked overhead, echoing in the steel and concrete. His boots pounded across the open space, the air thick with the acrid tang of gunpowder and dust.
A bullet whined past his ear, close enough that he felt the heat of it. He dove behind another fortified pallet stack, heart hammering, then peered around the edge.
Rodriguez was on the move. He dragged Drew out from behind the pallet, and using her as cover, he started toward a side exit. Miguel slid in behind him, and two cartel men ran interference, laying down suppressing fire.
Cross’s hand tightened on the grip of his pistol. “Not happening.” He broke cover, firing in controlled bursts. One cartel man went down, the other staggered, clutching his side.
Rodriguez turned toward Cross, their eyes locking for the briefest second. Cross saw the flare of fear there—then the man pulled open the door and pushed Drew through it.
“Go!” Patch’s voice was urgent in his ear. “I’ve got your six!”
Cross didn’t hesitate. He took off after Rodriguez and Miguel, the echoes of the gunfight chasing them both out into the night.
Rodriguez’s footsteps pounded ahead, the sound bouncing off the walls of the two warehouses they were running between. Cross pushed harder, lungs burning, every muscle screaming to close the gap. Rodriguez had ditched subtlety—he screamed at Drew to move faster.
“Stop running, asshole!” Cross’s voice was a growl.
Rodriguez glanced over his shoulder, the glint of his pistol in the dim light. “Come make me!”
The muzzle flash lit the alleyway for a heartbeat. Cross ducked, the bullet cracked into the wall, and spit concrete fragments into his face. He came up firing, forcing Rodriguez to veer left into an open warehouse maintenance bay.
Cross stopped and peeked around the end of the warehouse toward the bay. The night spun, and he knew he was reaching the limits of what his body could handle. He needed more recovery time after the infection. Too damn bad. He was going to get Drew to safety even if it killed him.
