Gunfire cracked through the warehouse.
Ethan ducked behind the crates, lungs burning, muscles aching. The air stank of gunpowder and blood.
He didn't know how many he had dropped by now—seven? Nine? Maybe more. All he knew was that the clip was down to five.
Five shots left. And too many enemies.
"Why are there so many of them?" Ethan muttered.
He didn't have time to think about the number. His breathing was shallow and controlled. Every time he peeked, he saw more boots storming in.
Reinforcements. Either Donald had too many men or these guards were multiplying like insects.
Ethan held the gun with shaky fingers, biting back the dread rising in his chest.
Across the room, Mark hadn't moved much.
He still had Donald in a tight hold, the magnum pressed against his temple. The man was pale, sweating bullets, but alive—because Mark allowed it.
And Mark?
He was still calm. Too calm. Like all of this was not something for him to be panicked.
