My hands are steady, and I hate them for it.
Steady hands belong to men who've done this before.
Mine are steady because they don't understand yet how bad this is going to get.
The first vehicle tears through the gate at speed, headlights cutting the dark, tires spraying gravel.
A second behind it, then a third.
Black SUVs with tinted windows, the kind of vehicles men use when they don't plan on being identified.
Marco's crew.
They spill out fast and organized.
Eight, ten, more behind them.
Tactical gear. Rifles. Flashlights sweeping the yard.
Against four prospects, a Sergeant at Arms, and a prayer.
Bloodhound fires first.
The crack splits the night open, and one of Marco's men drops behind an SUV door.
Everything after happens in fragments.
Muzzle flash from the tree line—Shots found a position.
Glass shatters in the common room. Beats screams something unintelligible from the east hallway.
Return fire chews into the compound walls, plaster and wood exploding above my head.
I fire from behind the bar doorway, aiming at shapes and muzzle flashes, pulling the trigger like someone operating on adrenaline and nothing else.
A round punches through the doorframe six inches from my face, and I feel splinters bite into my cheek.
They're pushing forward. Coordinated. Professional. They've done this before, and we haven't.
Radio crackles. Bloodhound's voice, strained: "Fall back. North tunnel. Now."
He's giving up the clubhouse.
Letting them have it so we can get underground and buy the women more distance.
The women who are running through tunnels whose locations Striker handed over to Marco on a golden platter.
I fire two more rounds to cover Lock's retreat down the hallway, then follow, running low, the sound of boots and shouts behind us as Marco's men breach the main entrance.
We hit the north tunnel access at a dead sprint, Bloodhound slamming the reinforced door behind us, throwing the bolt.
It won't hold long. It's not meant to. But it’ll give us enough of a head start.
The tunnel is black except for one flashlight between the five of us.
Bloodhound leads. I take the rear, pistol aimed at the darkness behind us, listening for the sound of the door giving way.
We run. Rock walls pressing close, air damp and mineral, my boots slapping wet stone.