He walked straight to his bike, boots crunching against the gravel with deliberate steps.
I frowned.
“Renzo.”
He stopped.
And for a moment—just a moment—something felt... off.
Renzo’s entire body went rigid.
Then—
I followed his gaze.
And my stomach dropped.
Every single one of the seven cars the third battalion had brought sat useless, tires flat.
The supercars sat in place like lifeless husks, their weight resting unevenly on punctured rubber, the sidewalls sagging as though something had drained the life from them.
Twenty-eight tires.
All slashed.
At once.
A cold chill crawled up my spine.
Renzo moved fast, Glock already steady in his right hand, his arm locked, barrel tracking the treeline with precise, deliberate movements.
His hand shot out, clamping around my upper arm, and in one fluid motion he yanked me backward—dragging me behind the nearest supercar.
The black Lamborghini’s frame blocked us from immediate view as we dropped into cover.
The Third Battalion reacted instantly.
Rifles came up.
Bodies dropped low.
They spread out in practiced formations, using the vehicles and scattered concrete barriers as cover, their movements precise, synchronized, lethal.
This wasn’t their first ambush.
And it wouldn’t be their last.
“What the fuck is going on?” I hissed, already pulling my Glock from its holster.
The weight of it settled into my grip.
I flicked the safety off with my thumb.
Renzo’s voice came low beside me.
“This is a red signal. We might be under attack.”
My breath hitched, then slowed as I forced myself to stay calm.
