I barely dodge in time.

The bullet hisses past where my head was a second ago, smashing into the concrete wall behind me. Cracks spiderweb outward from the impact, dust sifting into the air. The acrid sting of gunpowder fills my nostrils, and my head snaps toward the shadows where the shot came from. Footsteps shuffle closer.

If I’d hesitated, my blood would be painting the walls of this warehouse.

My pulse hammers, drowning out the echo of boots on concrete. I dive, skidding behind a stack of rusting metal crates. Bullets shred the air, ricocheting, sparks dancing off steel. The clang reverberates in my teeth.

“Keep moving,” I whisper to myself.

Another shot. The crate jolts as the bullet embeds deep. Metal screams.

I crawl lower, my palms raw against the grit-strewn floor. Shadows twitch with every muzzle flash. My body screams for stillness, but instinct roars louder. Move, or die.

The shooters aren’t amateurs. Their rhythm is clean, each burst of fire herding me like prey. They’re not spraying wildly, they’re driving me somewhere.

I grit my teeth. Not good.

The space smells of rust, mold, and cordite. Shafts of moonlight stab through broken windows, cutting silver beams across the floor. My chest heaves, lungs burning, as I push off and sprint toward the next cover.

A bullet grazes my sleeve.

Fabric tears.

My skin stings.

I slam behind a half-toppled forklift, its paint eaten by time. My breath saws in and out, fogging in the cold air. My fingers tremble as I reload. The magazine clicks into place with a sound far too loud.

For a second, silence.

Then, scraping. Boots drag slowly across the floor, circling.

They’re hunting me.

I press my back to the forklift, muscles coiled. Sweat slides down my temple. I risk a glance around the edge, nothing but shifting shadows. But the air feels heavy, weighted with their presence.

A whisper of movement to my left.

I whip around, firing. The muzzle flash blinds me for a heartbeat. The shot smashes into a wall of crates. Splinters explode outward.

No cry. No fall.

They’re still out there.

The footsteps stop.

Silence stretches, taut as a wire.

And then, glass shatters above. My head jerks up in time to see a figure drop from a catwalk, knife glinting in their hand. I roll, the blade slashing where my throat was.

Adrenaline floods me. I fire once, twice. The figure jerks, collapses, steel clattering beside them.

No time to breathe. Another shadow darts between the pillars, gun raised.

I dive, roll, come up firing. Sparks leap as bullets tear into the metal around him. He ducks, returning fire. My cover shakes with the impact.

The warehouse is a storm now, gunfire, ricochets, shouts echoing like ghosts. My lungs are fire. My legs ache, but I force them forward.

A ladder looms ahead, bolted to the wall, leading up to the catwalk. Higher ground. I sprint. Bullets chase me, snapping past, biting the steps as I climb. Metal rattles beneath my boots.

I throw myself over the edge, panting, sweat slicking my palms. From here the warehouse sprawls beneath me, an endless graveyard of crates, forklifts, shadows.

Movement, two more, spreading out below. They’re coordinated. Professional.

And they want me alive. Or dead, it hardly matters.

I steady my aim. Fire. One crumples. The other dives for cover, returning fire so precise it nearly takes my head off. I flatten, cheek scraping the rusted steel.

My ears ring. My heart is a drum.

This was supposed to be a simple exchange, get in, get out. Instead it’s a war zone.

“Come on,” I whisper, forcing breath into my lungs. “Think.”

I scan. A skylight above, jagged glass framing the night. My exit. But it’s a long run across an exposed stretch of catwalk, and they’ll cut me down before I get there.

Unless—

I grip a loose pipe beside me. With a grunt, I wrench it free. Metal screeches. I hurl it to the far end of the catwalk. The clang echoes like thunder.

Gunfire erupts in that direction.

I sprint the other way.

Boots pound after me. Shouts rise.

I don’t look back. The skylight nears, glowing faintly with moonlight. My body aches, lungs tearing for air, but I push harder.

A shot cracks. Pain flares white-hot in my arm. I stagger but don’t stop. Blood soaks my sleeve, slick and hot.

The skylight looms. I slam the butt of my gun into the glass. It shatters, shards raining down. The night air rushes in, cold and sharp.

I don’t hesitate.

I leap.

The world tilts. For a breathless moment, I’m flying, then crashing down onto the roof of a delivery truck outside. Metal groans under the impact. Pain spikes through my ribs.

But I’m alive.

I roll off, hit the pavement, and stumble to my feet. My vision swims, blood dripping steady from my arm. Inside, shouts grow louder. They’ll be after me in seconds.

The alley stretches ahead, dark and narrow. My only chance.

I run.