The SUV is lying on its passenger side in a crumpled wreck. The engine is still running, a high-pitched whine that sounds like a dying animal.
The driver’s side door, now the top door, pops open. A man climbs out.
Big. Tactical vest. Scarred face. He’s bleeding from a gash on his forehead, but he’s moving fast. He pulls himself up, standing on the side of the wrecked vehicle. He raises a pistol with a long suppressor.
I drop into a crouch, drawing my SIG in one fluid motion. I don’t aim for the chest. He’s wearing armor. Muscle memory takes over.
Double-tap.
Crack. Crack.
The sound is deafening, cutting through the roar of the storm. The first shot takes him in the throat; the second, in the eye. He drops like a puppet with its strings severed. He falls back into the cabin of the truck.
I move forward. Gun up. Scanning. The rain washes the blood from my face.
“Iris!” I scream.
No answer.
There’s movement in the front seat. The passenger. The windshield is shattered. A large hand clad in a black tactical glove reaches out, gripping the frame. A gun barrel follows it.
I fire through the glass.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Three rounds. Tight grouping. The hand goes limp, and the gun clatters onto the hood.
I climb up the undercarriage, grabbing the roof rack. Inside the cabin, the driver and passenger are both dead, the interior painted red.
I look into the back seat. It’s a tangle of limbs and white airbags.
“Iris!”
She’s suspended in the air by the locked seatbelt, covered in glass, her hands instinctively shielding her face. There’s blood on her forehead. Her eyes are fixed on the dead driver hanging above her, mouth open in a silent scream.
“Iris!”
I reach down, slash the belt with my knife, and catch her as she drops. She flinches, then kicks at me.
“Get off me! Get off me!”
“It’s me!” I shout. “Iris, look at me!”
Her eyes flick to me, fixating on the gun in my hand.
She freezes.
“Cassian?” she whispers.
“Give me your hand.”
She hesitates, trembling, then reaches up. Her fingers are shaking so hard she can barely coordinate the movement. I pull,hauling her out of the wreckage. I lift her clear of the glass and jump down to the asphalt.
She stumbles, but I catch her. She grabs the front of my shirt—my wet, ruined shirt—and holds on.
“They...” she gasps. “They said... my father...”
“They weren’t his men,” I say.
