Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
Ryan’s shoulder slammed against the floor with a jolt that knocked the air from his lungs. The first gunshot still echoed in his ears. He didn’t wait; he dragged Lucía with him behind the desk as shards of glass rained down in vicious arcs. They hit the tiles like sleet, skittering and sharp.
“Stay low,” he barked. His hand went to his hip and his PPK cleared leather with a snap.
Another shot cracked overhead. A fluorescent bulb exploded in a burst of sparks. One bullet sliced clean through the countertop, burying itself in the drywall inches from Lucía’s head.
She flinched, covering her ears. “They’re flanking,” she said, breath ragged. “Two shooters at least. Maybe more.”
He swore under his breath. He could see the shadows now—flickering movements outside the broken window, gliding like wraiths. Too disciplined for street muscle. Whoever they were, they were trained, armed, and not fucking around.
Blood trickled from a shallow cut on Lucía’s cheek. “We have to get out of here. There must be a back exit.”
Ryan nodded, angling his body toward the narrow hallway behind them. He stood, helping Lucía to her feet.
Then the front door exploded inward.
Wood splintered, hinges ripped. A tall man entered, all tactical black and purpose—no mask, just dead eyes. He raised an assault rifle with the calm precision of someone not expecting to miss.
Ryan fired. Two quick shots.
The man moved like water, ducking into cover behind a filing cabinet and firing.
Bullets tore into the wall behind him. Whoever this bastard was, he wasn’t just a trigger-happy thug, he was methodical.
Lucía cried out. A round caught her shoulder and spun her into the desk with a thud.
“Lucía!”
“Fuck! I’m hit.”
Ryan felt his heart stop, then restarted beating at twice the rate. “Where?”
“Shoulder. I’m okay.”
The shooter was still behind the filing cabinets, repositioning.
Ryan could hear the scuff of boots on linoleum.
He surged forward, grabbing her under the uninjured arm.
Another spray of gunfire ripped through the air, shredding papers, punching through furniture.
He ducked low, shielding her with his body.
Her face was pale, lips drawn tight in pain, but she was still conscious. “You good to move?”
“Better than staying here.”
He nodded. “Alright. Go!”
They bolted down the hallway, Ryan firing blindly behind them to suppress the shooter. He kicked open the back door. Blinding sunlight, heat, and the dry rasp of cicadas hit them. A cracked lot stretched behind the building: chain-link fence, weeds, a rusted water tank.
Movement at the fence line—a muzzle flash.
“Down!”
They dropped behind an ancient dumpster as bullets stitched the wall. Ryan leaned out, squeezed off two rounds; one ricocheted, the second made the shooter duck.
The PPK clicked empty. Ryan hit the release, yanked the spent mag clear, and shoved in another. The slide stayed forward, so he racked it once, the action snapping loud in the still air. “Truck’s around the front,” he said.
“That’s where they are.”
“Yeah. But it’s still our only ride.”
They ran, low and fast, hugging the wall. Lucía stumbled once, caught herself, pushed on. Her right shoulder was slick with blood.
They reached the corner. Ryan risked a glance and saw the truck was still there, baking in the heat. Two men were standing near the front steps of the tax office, scanning the road. “On my mark, you run for the passenger side.”
Lucía’s face was pale but set. “Okay.”
He stepped out, fired three quick shots. The attackers flinched and scattered for cover.
“Go!”
Lucía bolted.
Blood trailed behind her as she sprinted for the car. She dropped beside the front fender and yanked the passenger door open, using it as a shield. Her back hit the metal, breath coming hard.
Bullets punched into the gravel nearby.
She raised the Colt with one hand and fired—once, twice—forcing the shooters to duck again.
Ryan moved, sprinting low across open ground. A round skipped off the dirt just behind his boots. He vaulted the hood and slid into the driver’s seat in one fluid motion, ducking low below the dash.
His hand went straight to the ignition. Nothing. No keys.
“What are you waiting for?” Lucía shouted, braced behind the open door, gun up again.
“They took the fucking keys,” Ryan hissed, crouched in the footwell. He slammed a fist against the steering column.
He drew the folding knife from his boot, snapped it open, and stabbed it up into the plastic under the wheel. It cracked. Wires spilled loose. His hands shook, but he stripped two wires with the blade, twisted them.
Sparks jumped. The engine coughed, sputtered.
Died.
Another shot punched through the rear window. Shards exploded across the seat. Lucía ducked instinctively but stayed in place.
Ryan cursed under his breath, found another wire, twisted it tight. “You’re not dying here,” he muttered. He wasn’t sure if it was to her or himself.
He found the starter line, crossed it with the others. Another spark. The truck gave a choking roar and caught.
“Move!” he shouted.
Lucía scrambled into the seat, gun still clutched in her hand and slammed the door. Ryan swung his pistol up and fired two shots through the half-shattered windshield. The return fire cut off.
He jammed the truck into gear and hit the gas. The tires screamed. A final round shattered the side mirror as they tore down the road, dust boiling behind them.
“Hang on.”
Lucía slumped against the seat, lips pale, hands wet with blood. “That was no coincidence.”
“No,” Ryan said. His knuckles whitened on the wheel. “That lead was planted.”
“And we took the bait.”