Lash (Club Sin #7)

14. Little Lorenzo

little lorenzo

Tatiana

L orenzo once again uses his extensive network of contacts—we trade Rafael's Range Rovers and the Suburban for seats on a Colombian Army Chinook headed to Manaus for a joint training exercise. True to his word, he also secured a plain pine coffin for Tata's body and a flight back to Zagreb.

It's hard to fathom that my father is gone.

I have been through quite a bit in my life as the only child of a notorious gangster who also happens to be an elected official. But nothing could have prepared me for the devastating shock of walking into that room below Rafael's barn and seeing my father's broken body strung up like a side of beef.

I do not understand why. The others have explained it—Tata was supposed to keep Solomon, Scarlett, and Lorenzo captive as leverage to make Inez do what he wants. Lash too, I suppose—the redirection of that jet and the capture of Solomon and the others were part of the same plot.

But why kill Tata? Surely he would have continued to be valuable to Mercado? Apparently not.

I am truly adrift in the world, now. My business is me. I am the CEO, founder, president, COO, CFO, everything. Katya and Ana were my primary employees, and now they're gone too. Georg. Tata. Mercado has destroyed my life from the inside out, and I’m not sure he even realizes it.

I’m just collateral damage, something he doesn't give two shits about.

I spend the flight to Manaus stewing in my grief and my rage.

All this for…a single child?

The boy’s life undeniably holds value. But…how many people have to die for Mercado to get what he wants? The death toll has to be in the dozens at this point, with many more to come before it's over.

When the helicopter lands on the base in Manaus, I am delirious with exhaustion, boiling with impotent rage, and gutted with grief. Nico wraps an arm around my waist and guides me down the ramp and across the tarmac—a van is waiting to take us across the airfield to a different runway, where a twin-engine prop plane is being prepared for takeoff.

I groan as we pile into the aircraft, the weapons and other gear stowed in the duffel bags once more. "I feel like I have been traveling forever," I mutter to Nico in Croatian, too tired and emotional to bother with English.

"I know, my love,” he says. "It has been a lot."

"I was so mad at him for…being what he was, I guess. But now…" I shake my head, blinking back tears—I've cried more on the flight here than in the last several years combined. "I just…he's gone, and I…I guess I feel lost, even though I spent my life as an adult trying to get away from him and his effect on my life."

"Mercado is a singularly destructive force in this world," Nico says. "Everywhere he goes, everything he does, he leaves a wake of destruction and death behind him."

"Can you explain something for me?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I can try. If I can, I will."

"You all refer to him as both Mercado and Rafael. Which is his name?"

"Rafael is the name he was born with—Rafael Sousa. Mercado is his business persona. Very few have even heard the name Rafael Sousa. Many know the name Mercado—it is at once his name and the name of the cartel he runs, his operation as the king of cartels. So, people will say 'Look out, be careful, Mercado is coming,' and they mean Mercado's men, not he himself. They say 'You do not want to cross Mercado,' and they mean both the man and the organization. But when we say Mercado, we mean the man, Rafael Sousa."

“Oh. I see. And Inez?" I ask. “I’ve heard her called two names also.”

He chuckles. "It is sort of a thing for us, it seems—assuming new identities to get away from the past. I was born Nicolae Dragos, and when my family was killed, I chose the name Lash. Scarlett, according to what I have overheard, also has a name she was born with, different from Scarlett."

Scarlett is sitting in front of us, dozing. "I was born Maria Rodriguez," she says, without turning or lifting her head. “I’m from Panama, originally.”

Nico laughs, rubbing his face. "I didn’t realize I had switched to English. I am exhausted and disoriented."

I rest my head on his shoulder, laughing. "I didn't either."

Scarlett snorts. "He speaks to you in English, and sometimes Croatian, and you almost always speak to him in Croatian when it's just the two of you having a private conversation. But then other times, you switch back and forth at random."

"Anyway," Nico says. "Inez, too, has a past she sought to escape. I have not heard the whole story, however, but from what I gather, she was married against her will to Rafael. So legally, her name is Sophia Sousa."

Lorenzo is behind us. "She was born Sophia de Silva. Her father was the original kingpin of the cartel Rafael took control over. He married Sophia against her will—the details of that are not my story to tell. This marriage cemented his place in the cartel as Sophia's father's right-hand man. Once the marriage was done, Rafael killed Bruno de Silva, Sophia's father, and took over. The de Silva cartel was already immensely powerful, and Rafael, working under the name Mercado, expanded the cartel’s sphere of influence through a variety of means. He bribed officials, courted the favor of generals, took over smaller competing cartels by force and absorbed them into his operations. For the larger cartels he didn't want to go into outright war with, he used assassination to remove the cartel heads and installed people he controlled or who were loyal to him. Once his empire was big enough, he then began using more direct methods to assume further control. Now, he controls nearly the entire flow of drugs, guns, and humans into and out of South and Central America. That is Mercado. That is the man we seek to kill." Lorenzo sighs. Continues. "He is also a cold-blooded sociopath who delights in torture and murder."

"Lovely," I murmur. "So we are fighting a sadistic Goliath."

Lorenzo snorts. "No, Tatiana, we are fighting Goliath and the entire Philistine army."

"So how can we hope to succeed?" I ask.

Lorenzo doesn't answer immediately. "He cannot bring the entire force of his empire to bear against us all at once—it is spread out across Brazil, Colombia, Venezuela, and Mexico, not to mention all the other smaller countries in between, in a terrorist cell-type structure. He has eyes and agents everywhere, not just in Latin America. What works in our favor, however, is that he is intensely paranoid. He only trusts a very small circle of people, and his personal bodyguard is also a relatively small force because he trusts no one. So despite the size of his empire and the personnel and resources he controls, he is only surrounded by a very small entourage of assistants, lieutenants, and guards."

“Oh,” I say, “so as long as we can stay close to him, we stand a chance?"

“More or less, yes," Lorenzo answers. "I have my own network of resources and contacts in governments and militaries in Brazil and Colombia, and those are people I know for a fact are not owned by Mercado."

"And do you have a secret name, too?" I ask.

He laughs. "No. I am only Lorenzo Oliveira Araujo, as I have always been."

"Lorenzo Oliveira," I say, remembering Inez’s message.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. "Apparently she gave him my name. I am a little angry with her for not telling me that. It was also perhaps a little foolish to give him my name—Lorenzo is not a very common name over here. It is an Italian name, but my mother read it in a book and decided she liked it."

I turn to look at him over the back of my seat. "Is it possible that he is not Rafael's son, but yours?" I ask.

Lorenzo shakes his head. "Very, very unlikely. I…we only had a little time together before we were discovered, she was punished, and I was forced to escape with my life. No, the timing of her pregnancy does not align with our time together. I think she gave him my name out of love, and so no part of Rafael would be applied to him other than the unfortunate fact of his genetics."

Solomon speaks up, then. "I thought she said she didn’t know his exact whereabouts."

Lorenzo shrugs. "She doesn't—not exactly. Surucucu is probably a last known location or general area.” He growls. "I don't think she factored in Rafael being able to use us as leverage. She could and would have endured any torture without a word, but trapped between loyalty to us and love for her son, she was left with no good options."

"Are we really going to go after her son rather than her?" Solomon asks.

Lorenzo lets out a long breath. "For now, yes. She would murder us all herself if we rescued her and not her son. Once we have him and get him to safety, we get Sophia."

"Now that he has a name," Scarlett asks, "Does he even need her?"

“That is an excellent question," Lorenzo answers. "And I do not know. He is unpredictable—part of being a sociopath, perhaps."

"So for now, we focus on getting little Lorenzo to safety," Chance rumbles.

"Yes," Lorenzo says. “That is what she will expect. And we must all remember that this is Sophia. I do not think any of us can appreciate how dangerous she is. She went willingly into the lion's den, knowing full well what she would endure."

"You think she's playin' possum?" Kane asks.

Lorenzo shrugs. "Possible. If by playing possum you mean biding her time until she unleashes herself upon Rafael and his men, then yes."

"How will she know?" Saxon asks.

Lorenzo shrugs again. "I am not certain, but I have a feeling that when Rafael discovers we got to his son before he did, his reaction will be…intense, to say the least. If I had to guess, that is how she will know. Which means that we cannot fail to get to him first."

"Motherfucker outsmarted us once," Rev growls. “Not fuckin’ happenin’ again."

"Facts," Saxon says. "I just hope Inez leaves some of Rafael for us."

Lorenzo's laugh is deep and dark and wicked. "I do not. As much as we all have reason to hate him, none of us as much as she. And trust me when I say the death she will give him will be one for the ages."

I shudder. "Perhaps I am weak, but I do not think I should like to see that."

Nico kisses my temple. "It is good you do not. I do not wish for you to become like us."

"You may not be some vanilla virgin," Scarlett says, "but you're still a helluva lot more innocent than the rest of us. And in my book, that's a damn good thing."

I shake my head. "I do not know, Scarlett. I think seeing my father like that erased the last of my innocence.”

Nico sighs. "Perhaps. Just do not become so accustomed to seeing and dealing with death that it no longer affects you."

I can't think of an answer to that, so I let my eyes droop closed and let the drone of the engines lull me to a fitful sleep.

I wake as we prepare for landing. It's a smooth touchdown and a short taxi. Waiting for us on the tarmac at the airfield in Brasilia is an ex-military troop transport—a huge vehicle with a single bench cab and an open-air bed with benches on both sides facing inward.

Chance groans when he sees it. "Fuck, man. I thought my days of climbing my giant ass up into those things were over."

Lorenzo laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. "I am sorry, my friend. It was the best I could do on such short notice."

Chance chuckles. "Nah, it’s fine. We'd be fucked without you. I'm just not as agile as I was back in the day."

"Who is? Time waits for no one." Lorenzo rolls his shoulder and flexes his leg. "Once upon a time, I would barely feel these. Now? I am not as invincible as I used to be."

One by one, we all climb into the back of the transport, Lorenzo driving and Kane up front with him.

It is a long, slow, winding journey through rolling hills, flat grasslands, wide fields, and patches of forest, gliding along paved highways and bouncing over rutted dirt tracks. Immediately outside of Brasilia, the traffic is thick, but the further south we go, the more rural the landscape and the fewer cars we pass.

Lorenzo consults a navigation app on his phone now and then—it cuts in and out of service as we pass through dead zones and areas of reception, but after about two hours we begin passing the occasional residence and other signs of habitation. And then suddenly we're at a crossroads, and Lorenzo seems stumped.

He picks a fork, and we end up in a…I'm not sure what to call it. A neighborhood? Sort of? Cobbled together houses, repaired and rebuilt endlessly, serviced by dirt roads and surrounded by scrubby yellow grass lawns, all of it nestled in the U of a dense forest, with a vast, flat, open savannah forming the open part of the U-shape.

Faces peer from windows, curious and wary. At one home, a hunched old man hobbles out, leaning on a cane, and glares daggers at us. Here, Lorenzo brakes to a squealing halt, leaves the engine idling with a noisy diesel clatter, and approaches the old man. They converse for a few minutes, the old man gesturing eastward with his cane. Lorenzo shakes the man's hand with a warm, grateful smile. As Lorenzo saunters with a slight limp back to the truck, I see the old man glance into his hand, and then shove that hand into his pocket.

"Alright, friends," Lorenzo says, climbing up to stand in the open door of the cab, addressing us all. "We have a lead. There’s a condo building east of here, and I am told that a young boy named Lorenzo lives there, or did recently."

Returning to the fork in the road, we take the opposite path. Although newer than the houses in the other area, the condo building is in serious need of repair. A yelling, screaming cluster of children ranging from toddlers to young teens ramble the sparse, yellow grass and dirt road around the condo building, kicking and chasing a football around. They don't seem to be playing a game by any rules that I can see beyond getting the ball and keeping it as long as possible.

Lorenzo parks the truck again and hops down—Solomon joins him, and together they spend a few minutes talking to the kids. As the conversation continues, Lorenzo, almost absently, toes the black-and-white checkered ball toward himself and skillfully juggles it from foot to knee to chest to head, turning it into a game of keep-away while he asks his questions. After a few minutes of this, he seems to have gleaned the information he seeks and gestures for us to follow him into the building. Kane shuts off the motor and we all pile out and follow Lorenzo. Inside, the floors are covered in thin, tattered, and stained blue carpet. It stinks horribly, as well, some miasma of indeterminate origin, and is sweltering hot. Lorenzo leads the way up the stairs to a unit at the far end of the third floor.

He scans the group and then gestures at me. "Will you accompany me, Tatiana? We need to present an unthreatening face. This will be an unexpected and frightening process, most likely, and you will lend warmth and openness. Everyone else is rather terrifying, for a young boy especially."

I shrug. "Alright. You will have to translate for me, though."

"Of course." He rests a friendly hand on my shoulder. "All I really need from you is to smile and be kind and reassuring and calm. I am an old soldier, Tatiana so my bearing is not always…approachable for women and young children. You are here to soften things a bit."

"Are you saying I'm not soft and approachable?" Scarlett asks, deadpan.

Lorenzo just laughs. "No, Scarla, you are not."

She covers the scarred side of her face with one hand. "How about now?"

Lorenzo snorts. "I think I will stick with Tatiana. The rest of you, keep watch. We cannot be sure Rafael's men will not arrive while we are here."

Lorenzo knocks on the door while everyone else takes up positions at the window, on the stairs, and at the doorway.

After a moment, Lorenzo and I hear locks scraping, and then the door swings open inward. On the other side is a woman about my age or perhaps a few years older. She has brown skin and black hair in a loose bun with blunt, squared-off bangs, large silver hoop earrings, and long, pink press-on nails. She's wearing cutoff denim shorts and a pale green tank top, her large breasts braless, and a bit of a belly. She is suspicious and wary.

Lorenzo addresses her in rapid Spanish, but all I can make out is the name Lorenzo Oliveira. The woman stares at him silently for a moment and then shuts the door.

Before the door closes all the way, Lorenzo says something that I think must be "Wait!" He pulls his phone from his pocket and brings up a photo—it actually looks like he took a picture of an actual printed photograph with his phone.

This time the woman does respond with a terse question; judging by her tone, she's asking what he wants. She points at the others visible from her place just inside her condo, asking another question.

Lorenzo answers, but she doesn't seem to find his answer satisfactory. She moves to shut the door on him again, and again he blocks it with his foot, speaking more forcefully this time.

Angry now, the woman snaps at him, shoving him and kicking at his foot simultaneously. Unfortunately for her, Lorenzo is huge and powerfully built, and he's wearing heavy boots while she's barefoot, so Lorenzo doesn't go anywhere, and she hops backward, hissing and dancing as she clutches at her toes, cursing at him.

"CONTACT!" I hear one of the men shout from the door of the building. "Three SUVs and a technical."

Lorenzo grabs me by the arm and shoves me into the woman's condo, yanking his pistol from the back of his waist. The woman is yelling, hauling on his arm, and gesticulating at me. When this doesn't work, she lets go and darts into her kitchen, emerging with a massive kitchen blade.

Lorenzo holds his hands out toward her, trying to placate her, but she ignores him, approaching him with the knife in a posture that suggests she's no novice to a knife fight.

Gunfire erupts then, coming from the front of the building—a burst of automatic weapons fire.

The woman screams, running to a back bedroom with the knife clutched in her hand. Lorenzo follows her, and I follow him. The apartment is low-ceilinged, with yellowing drywall and cheap laminate floor, a sliding glass door to a postage stamp balcony shedding the bright hot Brazilian sunlight. The bedroom is tiny, with a narrow bed, posters of famous Brazilian footballers on the wall and thin, dirty beige carpet on the floor. A boy of about ten sits on the floor at a mound of LEGOs. As his mother bursts in wielding a knife, he drops the pieces in his hand and stares at her.

"Mama?" he queries, confused more than concerned.

Lorenzo fills the doorway, pistol in hand, and the young boy shoots to his feet and puts himself between his mother and Lorenzo, chin high, eyes blazing and defiant. More gunfire erupts—only a handful of seconds have elapsed from the first burst, and now the boy takes notice, turning to look up at his mother.

Lorenzo says something in a low, comforting tone, pointing toward the noise with his gun. I wriggle under his arm, offering mother and son what I hope is a reassuring smile.

"It's okay," I say in English. "We are here to help you."

Lorenzo translates, and I put myself between him and the mother and son. The woman responds, and I wait for the translation.

"She wants to know who is shooting and why we are here," Lorenzo murmurs to me.

"What have you told her?" I ask him.

"That I'm a friend of Sophia's, and that we need to get her and her son out of here."

"Seems like a lot more than that was said, Lorenzo."

"Yes, but most of it was her being suspicious and telling me to leave, and me trying to explain."

I give him a droll look. "Lorenzo, you are a big scary man showing up out of the blue talking about this boy's birth mother, telling her she needs to go with you. And then there's shooting. Of course she's going to be wary and protective."

The woman snaps something.

"She wants to know what we are saying."

I shuffle toward her, hands out so she can see I am unarmed. "You adopted Lorenzo from this woman, yes?" I ask, holding out my hand to Lorenzo; he puts the phone in it with Inez's photo on screen.

Soí,” she says. “And?”

I point toward the gunfire. "There are bad men out there who want to steal Lorenzo from you."

"Who wants to steal him? Why?" she asks, through Lorenzo.

"Do I tell her the truth?" I ask him.

"Yes, it is best, at this point."

So, I tell her, having to get closer to hear her over the back-and-forth chatter of the gunfight—deafening, terrifying.

"Lorenzo's father is Mercado," I explain, speaking slowly with pauses for translation. "I know you must have heard of him. He is a very evil man. He wants to make Lorenzo the next Mercado."

This gets her attention. "Mercado is the devil." She dry-spits on the floor and makes the sign of the cross. "My husband was killed by Mercado gangsters. He was doing nothing—shopping for food for dinner. Someone who angered Mercado was there, and they shot him, and my husband was in the way. They did not care. They are monsters."

I point in the direction of the gunfire. "That's them out there, and my friends are holding them off."

She looks at her son, and then at me. "He is the son of the devil?" She clutches her son to her chest with her free hand, the knife still at the ready.

"But he was raised with love," I say. "His mother—the woman who bore him, she will not let him become like Mercado. She sent us to protect you."

The woman's gaze goes distant. "She was hurt and afraid. She gave me a lot of money, but told me to be very careful with it. Never tell anyone how I got him." She snaps her gaze back to me. "Why does Mercado want him now, after so many years?”

"I do not know for sure. I heard that he had another son who was killed. He needs an heir to give the Mercado empire to, so he decided he wants it to be his son."

The woman presses a kiss to little Lorenzo's head, her eyes thoughtful. She shakes her head, mouth still pressed to her son's head. "He is my son. I do not care who his father is, and I will not give him back to her. He is mine."

Lorenzo steps forward then, addressing; after, he tells me what he told her. "Sophia is not trying to take him back. She wants you both to be safe. That is all."

The woman stares hard at Lorenzo. "Are you lying to me?"

Lorenzo shakes his head and meets her gaze without wavering or looking away. "Sophia went through a hell you cannot ever imagine to give that boy a safe life away from the world he was born into. She gave him to you to protect him, to raise him, and to love him. You have done this. Now, you must trust Sophia. You must trust us. We will keep you safe until Mercado is no longer a threat, and then we will help you find a new place to live." He thumps himself on the chest. "I was there. I saw what she did, what she went through. I helped her escape and I helped her get a new identity and papers for him. I will help you again when this is over. For now, you must come with us and let us protect you."

The gunfire stops abruptly, and Solomon and Scarlett find us—Scarlett is splattered with blood, her face, hands, and chest painted with it. They both have assault rifles held casually across their torsos.

"Threats neutralized," Solomon says. "But we gotta go. There'll be more."

"Everyone okay?” Lorenzo asks.

Solomon nods. "These guys must have been the B-team for some local gang. Couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun from point blank range if their lives depended on it."

The woman and Little Lorenzo have backed away from the bloody specter of Scarlett. I move away from them and toward the pair, speaking in a low tone, trusting Lorenzo to translate.

"We really need to leave now, okay? Pack some clothes and your most important belongings—only things you can carry."

"Will we come back?" The woman asks.

I can only shrug. “Truthfully, I do not know. All I know is that more bad men will come looking for you, and soon. Belongings can be replaced—your lives cannot."

She lets out a shaky breath and then turns to face her son in a crouch, murmuring to him in Spanish. He nods, eyes wide and constantly flicking back to Scarlett."

Lorenzo eyes her. "Maybe you can clean up a bit? You are scaring the boy."

Scarlett rolls her eyes at him, but heads into the bathroom across the hall. "Oh, well shit. No wonder the poor kid looks like he's about to shit himself."

" Exatamente ," Lorenzo mutters, more to himself.

A few minutes later, the woman—whose name I still haven't heard—has a duffel bag and a backpack as well as her purse, and Little Lorenzo has his own duffel bag and backpack. They follow us out of the building and stop at the top of the steps, staring. The parking lot is littered with bodies, and one of the SUVs is smoking from the hood.

Kane trots down the steps after us. "Did a quick check of the facing units. It doesn’t seem like anyone got hit by any strays or ricochets. They're pissed and confused, though. We’re gonna have cops on our ass if we don’t get the actual motherfuck out of here."

Solomon claps him on the shoulder. “Good news. Thanks, Kane." He raises his voice. "We need to split up. Take the intact SUV. Nico, Tatiana, Rev, Kane—you take the technical. Nico, I want you on that fifty cal. You so much as smell anyone on our six, light 'em the fuck up. Everyone else, in the SUV."

The technical, it turns out, is a pickup truck with a giant machine gun mounted in the bed. The pickup is an older model four-door pickup with ripped and filthy cloth seats, trash cluttering the footwells, and stinking of cigarettes and body odor. Rev and Kane take one look at the interior, at each other, and then say, "Oh, fuck no," in unison. Within seconds, they've tossed the trash into the backseat of one of the shot-up SUVs. That done, Kane takes the driver's seat, glances at me and points at the front passenger seat while Rev sets up in the back seat, laying not one but two assault rifles beside him, along with several boxes of ammunition and a handful of spare magazines. Lash climbs into the bed and immediately goes to work checking the machine gun, testing the movement of the action, running his hands over the belt of bullets, testing the range and smoothness of the tilt and swivel. He crouches and goes over the spare belt of ammunition and then rises and readies the weapon. That done, he takes a seat in the bed and slaps the side a couple times.

The others load into the SUV, Lorenzo behind the wheel; a few moments later, we're heading north. The troop transport we took here has been shot to hell, the tires flattened, the engine filled with holes, and all the glass shattered, which is why we had to split up.

Rev hands me a box of ammunition and several empty magazines. "Tatiana, if and when shit starts to pop off, you're my reloader, yeah? Your job is to make sure I'm never out of fuckin' bullets. When I run out, I'm gonna say 'reload.' That's your cue. When you hear that word, you hand me the other rifle." He passes one of the guns to me and then leans over the console, pointing at a particular button near the handle. "This is the mag release. Press it and the mag will drop out. Slide in a fresh one— tap gently it to make sure it's in place. Do not whack it, that's TV bullshit and you’ll cause a jam. So. I say 'reload' and we switch. Then, while I'm shooting, you put in a new mag and refill the empty one. Got it?"

I nod. "Yes, I understand. I am familiar with pistols as my father made me practice with him at the shooting range once every week for my whole life, and I do have some experience with bigger guns like this one."

He nods. "Good. Let's practice. Safety on?" He watches as I check the safety, nods again when I am sure it's engaged. "Okay. Reload!"

I pass him the gun but fumble it in my haste. "Shit," I say in Croatian and then address him in English. "I am sorry. Try again."

"This is why we practice," he says. "Remember—slow is smooth and smooth is fast. Don't try to hurry."

"Slow is smooth and smooth is fast," I repeat. "Okay."

He hesitates, puts the gun to his shoulder, and then down. “Reload!”

I exchange with him, this time focusing on smoothness rather than speed, and it works perfectly. The exchange goes well, and I release the magazine, pick up another full one, slide it in, and tap it home. We exchange again, and I switch mags again. We practice the exchange several more times until it’s smooth. I glance at Nico through the rear window and find him watching me. He gives me a smile and a nod and then goes back to scanning our back trail.

The first hour is uneventful and boring, passing cars and fields and forests and the occasional town or village.

And then it happens.

A caravan of four SUVs, black Suburbans identical to the ones in the compound, pass us heading south. They see us, and brakes squeal as they make hurried U-turns. Nico keys his radio, and I hear his voice through the window and from the radio sitting in the cupholder in front of Kane.

"Contact! Four hostile vehicles."

"Copy," comes Solomon's voice. "Engage. Weapons free."

"Alright," Rev says. "Let's fuckin' go, boys and girls.”

Nico is on his feet at the big machine gun, and the weapon is belching fire and noise, and the whole vehicle shudders and rocks with the recoil. Rev twists in the seat to lean through the open window, tucks his rifle to his shoulder, and opens fire, adding to the deafening barrage of gunfire.

Nico's first burst walks rounds toward the enemy vehicle, sending chunks of road spraying everywhere, and then the rounds smash into the SUV's hood and shatter the windshield. White smoke billows from the hood and the big vehicle wobbles, spins sideways, and then flies into a barrel roll. The vehicle behind it swerves and barely avoids it, only to meet Rev's bullets, which pock the hood and put spiderwebbing holes in the glass. Nico sends another burst at them, and the glass shatters and red sprays, but the vehicle continues after us. Someone in the Suburban returns fire, and I see the metal of the bed pock and dent and divot inches from Nico, and then the rear window shatters. I duck, screaming, as more rounds thunk into the console inches from me. Nico fires another burst and these rounds smash into their hood, loosing a cloud of white smoke, and the vehicle wobbles, brakes, and fishtails.

Rev doesn't let up, pouring fire into the vehicle even after it has halted, and I catch a glimpse of crimson spray. His weapon clicks, and he passes it to me, shouting "RELOAD!"

I trade with him as we practiced, put a new mag in the weapon, and spend the next few moments thumbing shells into the plastic magazine.

"I think I might've killed someone just now," Rev says, conversationally.

"But you don't know," Kane answers, "So don't fuckin' worry about it. This is survival, bro. Mercado can send a fuckin' army after us."

Two down, two to go. The other two have closed the gap, and now men are leaning out of both rear windows of the lead SUV, their rifles chattering—their shots go wide, although one smashes the side view mirror on the driver’s side.

Nico fires another long burst, pauses, and fires again, but the Suburban swerves just in time and the rounds hit the vehicle behind them—tires pop, the hood sprouts holes, smoke billows, and that vehicle brakes and spins to a halt. The Suburban swerves, narrowly avoiding oncoming cars. The shooters open fire at the same time, and several rounds walk with vicious violence up the bed and into the seat next to Rev, into the console, and into the radio, smashing it to splinters. I duck instinctively—a round punches through the headrest where my head was moments before, and then through the windshield. Nico's weapon barks, and the technical shudders with the recoil, and Rev fires as well. More rounds clank and thunk off the side of the truck, and glance off the roof.

And then Rev grunts in pain, pulling himself into the cab with a string of curses. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck. That fuckin' hurt, you fuckin' twat." He's bleeding from the arm. "Goddammit. Lash, finish them off, for fuck's sake!"

"How bad is it, Rev?" Kane asks, without turning to look.

“Had worse," Rev answers, peeling his shirt off with a wince and grunt. "Through the bicep."

Nico loads a new belt into the gun, he racks the action, and pours another long burst at the final Suburban—the shooters are reloading as well. Nico is faster, and his rounds smash through the driver's side of the glass and send a cloud of red mist up to paint the interior—the vehicle swerves, tilts, and rolls; an oncoming car avoids it, but another isn't so lucky, causing a pileup.

The sudden silence is strangely loud—the only sound is the whistle and roar of the wind through the windows.

Rev rips a strip from the hem of his shirt and ties it around his wound, gripping one end in his teeth and yanking it tight until he grunts in pain. That done, he sags against the seat, panting.

"Getting shot fuckin' sucks," he mutters.

"Yeah, it definitely doesn't tickle," Kane answers. He looks at me briefly. "You good?"

I finger the hole in the headrest, feeling shaky. “That one was close."

Kane touches a hole in the dashboard—that round nearly hit him as well. "Yeah, that one almost had my name on it."

I hold out my hand, which trembles uncontrollably. "I cannot stop shaking."

He nods. "Adrenaline. It'll pass. Just focus on breathing." He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. "You did good, Tatiana, real good."

Rev squeezes my shoulder as well. "Yeah you did. Good job, darlin'."

I give them each a weak smile, and then look at Nico through the now-shattered window. He's leaning against the back of the cab, a hand pressed to his hip.

Blood streams down his thigh, and he slumps slowly to his butt in the truck bed.

"Nico!" I cry, scrambling over the console and leaning through the rear window frame. “You're hit!"