The high-powered 7.62mm round detonated with a thunderous crack that eclipsed the storm. The armor-piercing projectile screamed across the gap and slammed directly into the engine block of the center Suburban, punching through the radiator and shearing the serpentine belt. A second later, Dana’s double-tap struck the vehicle’s main battery casing, sending an eruption of blinding electric blue sparks and white smoke billowing into the headlights.
Contact! the lead contractor barked, diving behind the left-side vehicle. Open fire!
The bridge erupted into a cacophony of suppressed gunfire. A hail of 5.56mm rounds chewed through the hood of Dana’s old pickup, spiderwebbing the safety glass, punching through the sheet metal, and kicking up metallic shrieks as lead ricocheted off the iron girders above.
Dana didn’t hide behind the cab. She knew standard automotive sheet metal was nothing more than concealed paper against rifle ammunition. She grabbed Marcus by the haul strap of his vest, dragging him backward with brute physical force toward the heavy structural uprights of the bridge’s steel truss.
Move! Dana yelled into his ear. Behind the concrete footing! Now!
Marcus scrambled on all fours through the blinding spray of water and engine coolant as the truck’s tires were shredded by gunfire. Bullets whined past his ears, snapping the rivets out of the iron framework around them.
Dana dropped onto her stomach on the wet steel decking, rolling into the shadowed alcove formed by the massive diagonal bridge beam. She reached into her combat vest, pulled a cylindrical flashbang canister, pulled the safety pin with her teeth, and hurled it with a sidearm arc across the thirty-yard gap.
The grenade bounced twice off the wet asphalt, skidding beneath the front bumper of the right-hand Suburban.
Grenade! a mercenary shouted, attempting to fall back.
A blinding, two-million-candela flash tore through the storm, instantly bleaching the night in pure, incandescent white, followed by a concussive shockwave of one hundred and eighty decibels that shattered the remaining windshields of the vehicles and temporarily ruptured the eardrums of every man within twenty feet.
Two of the contractors fell to their knees, clutching their ears, disoriented and blind.
Dana rose like a wraith from the iron shadows.
Three shots. Three precise, rhythmic cracks of the SCAR 17.
The lead contractor dropped, a high-caliber round finding the unarmored seam between his shoulder and collarbone. The second mercenary took a center-mass shot through his ceramic plate that drove him backward off his feet onto the hard pavement. The third contractor, his sight ruined by the flashbang, fired wildly into the sky before a round caught his tactical helmet, spinning him into the guardrail.
Sheriff Miller lost his mind.
Drop your guns! Miller shrieked, backing away toward his cruiser, his service weapon slipping from his sweat-slicked fingers onto the bridge floor. Richard, she’s taking them apart! She’s an operator! We’re not paid for this!
Shoot her! Richard Vance roared from the rear passenger seat of the surviving Suburban, his face purple with absolute, uncontrollable fury. What am I paying you for, you useless cowards?! Shoot her!
The three remaining mercenaries recovered their discipline. They laid down a blistering stream of automatic fire, chewing through the steel beam Dana was using for cover. Hot shrapnel peppered her cheek, drawing a thin line of scarlet that washed away in the downpour.
Dana dropped the empty magazine from her rifle, slapping a fresh twenty-round clip into the receiver with her left palm. She glanced at Marcus, who was curled against the base of the concrete abutment, his eyes wide, watching the carnage with absolute, paralyzed awe.
Marcus! Dana shouted over the gunfire. Can you drive a stick shift?!
Marcus blinked through the rain, his voice shaking. What?!
My truck! Dana yelled, ducking as a volley of rounds sparked against the metal inches above her helmet. The suspension is intact! The front axle is good! When I draw their fire to the eastern pedestrian catwalk, you get behind that wheel!
You’re going to draw their fire?! Marcus screamed. There are three men with rifles and armor! They’ll tear you in half!
They train on civilian ranges, Dana said, her eyes narrowing into cold slits of pure, lethal focus. I spent seven years hunting warlords in caves. They are out of their depth, Marcus. Now get ready!
Dana didn’t wait for his permission. She unclipped a second device from her belt—an M18 tactical smoke canister—popped the pin, and threw it not toward the enemy, but directly into the center of the bridge span. Dense, gray-white chemical smoke erupted instantly, resisting even the heavy downpour, mixing with the steam from the ruined radiators to create an impenetrable, ten-foot-tall wall of fog.
Dana broke left.
