“What the hell?” Striker said. “Mace did you call in backup? Arrange cover?”
“No. I don’t know who the new guys are.”
The car screeched as he ran it up onto the sidewalk and through a pedestrian-only area, which was empty because of the early hour. Another vehicle blocked their path. A gun fired at them, hitting their rear as their car swerved left. There was a blast. Their car was propelled into the air. They hit a screen advertising nutrition bars and crashed to the ground beneath it.
“Car’s done.” Mace snatched up his gun and threw open the driver’s door.
“Everybody out.” Striker grabbed her arm and dragged her through his door.
Even though it was predawn, there were still some people about. They ran, screaming, desperate to get out of the way as two sets of vehicles descended on the square—firing at each other.
He thrust her into the doorway of an old stone building. “What’s going on?” he snapped.
“Damned if I know,” Mace answered. “Feels like we’re stuck in the middle of a turf war—and we’re the turf.” He aimed and fired at a vehicle that got too close. It exploded, smoke billowing from it.
Friday’s stomach spasmed. They weren’t fighting over turf. They were fighting over her. She’d caused this. She was trapped in the doorway behind the two men, their bodies a wall protecting her from the attackers. She curled her fingers into the back of Striker’s T-shirt and tried to make herself as small a target as possible.
“Oh crap,” Mace said. “That isn’t good.”
“What?” She tried to see past them. It was impossible. Their shoulders alone blocked out sunlight.
“Run!” Striker reached back, grabbed her hand, and yanked her out of the doorway—just before the massive driverless truck hit the spot where they’d been standing.
The crash made the air vibrate and the ground shudder. Gunfire skimmed past them as the world seemed to explode. Striker dragged her behind an old, ornate fountain.
“Stay down,” he ordered as he knelt up and fired over the stone edge of the fountain.
The world was in chaos. People were running and screaming. Floating communication screens flashed messages telling them to cease and desist. Police sirens wailed in the distance. There was shouting. Pounding feet. The ever-present blasts of gunfire. Smoke stung her eyes. Screams of bystanders made her nauseous.
“Don’t touch the woman! We need her alive!”
She felt faint at the words.
“That explains the two groups,” Striker said. “Team one wants you alive, team two wants you dead. You sure are popular, bébé.”
“Don’t fire!” Mace shouted before landing in a heap beside them. He had his back to the fountain, his gun aimed toward the building behind them. “They’re coming around behind us.”
“Who?” Striker shot a few more blasts.
Someone screamed in pain, telling her that his shot had hit its target. He ducked down to avoid the return fire.
“The guys who’re out to snatch her. That’s who.”
“Looks like they’ve taken out most of the team who’re here to kill her.” Striker fired again.
“Yeah, I saw that. We need to get out of here. We’re about two miles from the airfield. We can cover it on foot if we have to.”
“Contact the pilot, tell him to get ready for a fast takeoff. We’ll be coming in hot.”
“Copy that.”
Striker shifted to study the corner of the building the truck had crashed into. “We make for the other side of the truck. I saw apartments. Private garage.”
“We can hotwire a car.” Mace finished typing out a message to the jet pilot on his wrist unit. “I’ll lay down cover. You take Friday.”
“If we get separated, you know what to do.”
“Yep.” Mace crouched low, looking over the fountain. “You ready?”