“Must be up and over. Come on.” I ran to my right. I’d seen a way out of the courtyard. A makeshift step in the shape of an old barbeque.
“Freya,” Ricardo called. “Wait.”
His footsteps were fast behind me and I was quick to scoot up and over the fence. The descent on the other side was nearing seven foot but I dropped carefully, keeping my knees soft.
Still it jarred my back and a pain shot through my hip. But I ignored it, the way I’d been trained to, and scanned the gloomy alleyway. It was long and straight with three-storey, dirty-windowed buildings either side. A burned-out car hosted foul-smelling bin bags, a ginger cat dashed into a drain, and a pile of mattresses were rotting.
Ricardo landed next to me, the air huffing from his lungs.
Patrick was a second behind him. The thick knee pads of his kit saving his patellas a crack or two. “Have you seen anything?”
“No. Damn it.” How could we have lost Enrique and the other scumbags laying low with him?
Suddenly I spotted it. Movement behind the burned-out car. A flash of black leather. The glint of a pistol.
Bang.
The familiar whizz of a bullet too close for comfort screeched past my ears.
The fence behind burst with energy as it was hit.
“Take cover,” Patrick yelled, scooting to the right.
I didn’t need telling what to do and sought refuge behind a rusting old refrigerator. I fired off a round towards the car. My weapon chugged in my hand as the bullets released. They hit nothing but metal.
“Is it him?” Ricardo asked, pressing close to my side so he, too, was in cover.
“I’d say so.”
Another three bullets headed our way. I slapped my hand on my helmet, sensing they were damn close.
“Bastard.” Ricardo leaned to his right, and returned fire.
More bullets, pinging off the fence and rattling from the walls.
“That’s a different gun,” I said, looking up. “Shit, there’s more of them.”
To my horror I realised we were being fired on from above. That meant our cover was useless. I had point-something of a second before a bullet with my name on hurtled through the air.
And then I saw him—a tall man, bare-chested, scrappy black beard— holding a shotgun. The business end pointed my way like a deadly black eye staring at me.
I raised my weapon, found him in my sights, then fired. Twice. Each shot went straight into his mouth.
He had no time to react. No time to know what was happening. His body simply crumpled forward. It hung for a second over the low windowsill then fell, limbs akimbo, and crunched onto the ground.
“Fuck,” Ricardo said. “I hadn’t seen him.”
“We’re not out of danger yet.”
“Cover me,” Patrick shouted.
He stood and ran towards the car, spraying bullets as he went.
Ricardo and I kept watch for movement, but there was none.
Patrick crouched, panting, behind the trunk.
“Requesting backup,” Ricardo said into his radio earpiece. “Alley due north of operation point.”