Page 48 of Isaac

"He’ll dig those Russian guns."

"Does he need us to double the shipment? Because cutting ties with Red Skull isn’t an option."

Toro.

Red Skull.

Their mention sends prickles down my spine like raindrops on a tin roof.

So Thoreau does mingle with cartel blood after all. This unexpected knowledge triggers shock waves through my senses.

As we finish crossing the lot, we begin to scatter toward our respective vehicles. The tension from my shoulders finally starts dissipating like smoke in the wind.

Today was productive.

Marco elbows me. "You’re gonna get a ride upgrade, huh?" He gives me a crooked half-grin. "Junkyard has been calling that piece of shit you’re driving since 1999, buddy."

I can’t help it. I scoff at the joke.

Sometimes, these guys aren’t all gloom and doom. Ricky and Marco can be jokesters. Flynn bought me a bottle of very expensive tequila as a thank-you for patching him up. His wife sent cookies. Even Hector is okay. He shared with me some Spanish expletives that, according to him, have a stronger impact than "pinche puto."

"Just hang tight with us." Marco's words are accompanied by a reassuring pat on my back before he navigates his way around the SUV, ready to take control of the wheel.

The growl of multiple engines that I didn’t care to bother about because we are right by the highway escalates. The sound is disturbingly close, right outside the wire fence that surrounds the property.

Through the jagged holes, I glimpse bikes.

At least four, maybe five. Riders in all black.

Like phantom streaks, they blur past the mundane traffic and then steer off the road and…oh shit…

My gut screams out a primal warning.

Just as I'm attempting to connect these erratic puzzle pieces together, reality cracks open around me with tale-tell bursts of gunfire.

A cruel déjà vu engulfs me and I’m thrown back into the memory. I’m somewhere on the battlefield with bullets whizzing by and explosions blasting.

But survival instinct kicks in, not letting me falter longer than a passing heartbeat before responding.

I shove Marco to the ground. "Take cover!" My own voice sounds foreign in the chaos as I hurl myself behind one of the parked cars and ready my Glock, praying to God Jeremy didn't give me a faulty one. I wouldn’t put anything past him at this point.

When I scan our discarded formation—it suddenly hits me: the usually well-oiled machine that’s our crew either hasn’t expected an ambush or hasn’t dealt with one in a long time. Shock and fury paint everyone’s faces. Those I can see anyway. Marco. Ricky. Seven. Each one frantically scrambling for their own gun.

I hear Hector’s shouting something about calling for backup.

"Got my back?" I ask Marco. He's still sucking in desperate lungfuls of air beside me. Hunched behind the SU, we're buried in the clamor of shattering glass and bullets getting intimate with cold metal.

Marco responds without words, just a nod—a pact.

He readies his Glock and gives me a go.

I shuffle toward the vehicle’s edge feeling every jolt of fear playing hopscotch up my spine.

Gulping down a knot of dread, I carefully peek over the disfigured hood, hardly having time for a breath before another bullet flies past inches from my face. Its angry zing tugs strands of my hair against my cheek as if warning me that it won't miss next time.

Fucker.

I slip back down and wait a few seconds, listening to gunfire exchange and the roar of the engines. My next attempt to get a better sense of what’s going on confirms my suspicions. The bikes and bikers themselves have no identifying signs. They are circling the lot, getting closer and closer. The SUV to our right is exposed. Isaac is the only one hiding behind it and he looks like he is out of ammo. And where the fuck is Jeremy when you need him?

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