Alexander didn’t wait for his vision to clear. Rolling hard to his left, he scrambled behind a thick concrete structural column just as a hail of automatic gunfire chipped away at the edges, spraying sharp stone shrapnel into his face.

Rat-tat-tat-tat!

"Die, you TMC piece of shit!" roared one of the shooters, his voice echoing over the roar of the engine. "This is for everything you bastards did to Big Black!"

"Flank him! Don’t let him breathe!" shouted the second operator from the opposite side, his boots sliding against the gravel as he moved with terrifying speed.

Alexander was pinned. Every time he tried to peek out to aim his rifle, a precise burst of three rounds forced him right back behind the crumbling concrete. The impact on his chest plate had left his ribs burning, and the warm, thick sensation of blood dripping from his torn ear down his neck was blinding him on one side.

"Son of a bitch," Alexander hissed, wiping the blood from his eye with the back of his glove.

He couldn’t stay here. The two men were moving in a perfect V-formation, cutting off his angles. If they managed to lock him in a crossfire between the column and the ruined Tahoe, he was dead.

Gathering every ounce of adrenaline left in his system, Alexander didn’t retreat—he sprinted toward a row of parked delivery vans, firing blind over his shoulder with his right hand to force them to take cover.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

"He’s moving! Cut him off at the alley!" the left shooter yelled, cursing loudly as one of Alexander’s blind rounds shattered the windshield of their own truck.

Alexander threw himself sliding across the oil-slicked asphalt, wedging his body beneath the chassis of a box truck just as a stream of lead punched a line of holes through the metal paneling right above his head. The air was thick with the smell of burning rubber and gasoline. From just a block away, the sounds of explosions and screaming TMC agents proved the entire sector was turning into a slaughterhouse.

"You think you’re safe under there, asshole?" a voice snarled from less than ten feet away.

Alexander saw the combat boots approaching through the narrow gap beneath the vehicle. The shooter was moving keeping his weapon trained on the ground, ready to turn Alexander’s hiding spot into a metal coffin.

"Go to hell," muttered Alexander.

Instead of trying to crawl out, he aimed his rifle upward, directly through the rusted floorboards of the box truck’s underbelly, and emptied half a magazine into the fuel tank area, praying the spark would give him the opening he needed.

Rat-tat-tat-tat!

The high-caliber rounds punched through the rusted sheet metal and structural framework of the box truck. A split second later, a brilliant flash of orange light erupted beneath the chassis as the ruptured fuel lines ignited, blowing the rear tires out with a deafening boom.

"Holy shit! Fall back!" shouted the shooter closest to the vehicle, his boots scraping frantically against the asphalt as the sudden shockwave of heat blew him backward.

The blast gave Alexander his window. He scrambled out from beneath the burning underbelly, coughing through the thick, black chemical smoke. His ears were ringing but his eyes locked onto the first attacker, who was still off-balance from the explosion.

Alexander raised his rifle, his vision centering on the man’s chest, and squeezed the trigger.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The three rounds tore through the shooter’s vest, spinning him around before he crashed lifelessly onto the pavement.

"Charles!" roared the second shooter from across the alley, his professional composure vanishing into pure rage. "You motherfucker! I’ll skin you alive!"

The remaining operative abandoned all caution, stepping out into the open and dumping an entire magazine toward Alexander’s position. Bullets sparked off the asphalt and ripped into the burning frame of the box truck. Alexander dove behind the rear wheel of his ruined Tahoe, the rubber absorbing the impact of the stray rounds as he quickly ejected his empty magazine and slapped a fresh one into the mag well.

"You’re dead! You hear me?!" the shooter screamed, the distinct, sharp clack of his weapon running dry echoing through the narrow corridor as he scrambled to reload.

"You talk too much," said Alexander, his voice a low, freezing growl.

He didn’t wait for the man to slide a new magazine into his rifle. Alexander lunged out from behind the tire, leveling his weapon, and fired a precise burst into the shooter’s throat. The man choked on his own rage, his weapon slipping from his fingers as he collapsed against the brick wall.

Alexander collapsed onto his back against the cold asphalt, his chest heaving as he stared up at the smoke-choked sky. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal. He had survived, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. In every previous firefight, he had always held the upper hand, dominating his targets with precision. This time, it hadn’t been skill. It had been pure luck.

"There’s another one over here! Move, move!" shouted a harsh voice from the mouth of the alley.

Alexander’s eyes snapped toward the sound as a fresh squad of three armed underground operatives rounded the corner, their weapons raised.

"Shit!" muttered Alexander, gritting his teeth as he slapped his palm against the ground, trying to heave his body upward to find cover.

The moment he put weight on his lower half, his left leg buckled, sending a sickening wave of white-hot agony up his spine. He looked down through the haze and saw his pants soaked in dark, pumping blood—a high-caliber round had cleanly perforated his thigh. The sheer overload of adrenaline had masked the injury during the chaos, but now that the initial rush had paused, his body flatly refused to move.

"Damn it! Move! Move!" roared Alexander, desperately dragging himself backward with his elbows, his fingers straining to raise his rifle with a trembling grip.

Before the three hostiles could pull their triggers, a deafening volley of automatic gunfire erupted from a parallel side street, tearing into the attackers from their blind flank. The three men were ripped apart, their bodies dropping into the gravel like stones under a hail of heavy caliber rounds.

But the rescue came a fraction of a second too late.

As the lead attacker had fallen, his finger had convulsed against his trigger in a dying reflex. A final, stray burst of lead sprayed wildly across the pavement, and two rounds found their mark.

Thud! Thud!

One bullet slammed directly into Alexander’s right clavicle with a sickening crack, while the second tore cleanly through his shoulder blade, shattering the joint and exiting out his back. The crushing force of the impact pinned him to the ground, the rifle slipping from his useless fingers as a suffocating darkness rushed into the edges of his vision, leaving him paralyzed.