Romance

  Brett&#39;s Perspective
  Bullets whined past my ears. One struck a rusted oil drum with a heavy *thump*, throwing up a shower of blinding sparks. A second shot cracked, then a third, ripping apart the night’s false quiet over the sprawling junkyard.
  &quot;Damn it! They&#39;re shooting!&quot; Scarface roared, instinctively dropping lower. These weren&#39;t rubber bullets or tranquilizers. This was live ammo. The real, lethal kind.
  The four of us—well, now effectively three—scrambled like startled rabbits, weaving a desperate zigzag between mounds of scrap, using every piece of junk as cover. But the pursuers clearly didn&#39;t care if we were taken alive. The &quot;dead&quot; option seemed preferred.
  Luka, already unsteady from his injured arm, was just ahead and to my left. After a shot that sounded too close, he grunted, his body jerking forward before he collapsed to one knee.

  Brett&#39;s Perspective
  A heavier barrage of fire raked the truck. The guards were pissed. Sparks flew as bullets struck metal. Suddenly, the passenger gunner jolted, a muffled grunt escaping him. He almost dropped his rifle. The fabric over his right shoulder darkened rapidly with blood.
  &quot;Damn it! Lycotine rounds! Sneaky bastards!&quot; he snarled, his voice tight with pain. That vile, wolf-specific ammunition designed to slow healing and cause agony.
  He immediately tore a strip from his shirt, tying a tight tourniquet above the wound, but his face contorted in pain, his return fire becoming slow and clumsy.
  The driver cursed, trying more erratic maneuvers, but with one gunner nearly out, the pressure skyrocketed. The SUVs closed in, even trying to flank us.
  Despair washed back in.
  Out of the frying pan, into a shooting gallery on wheels?
  Then, a new sound. Engines,

  Brett&#39;s Perspective
  Running.
  Damn it all, just pure, adrenaline-fueled, lung-searing *running*. The cold air scraped my throat like ground glass. Every ragged breath tasted of iron and distant rot. My right arm screamed with a dull, throbbing ache—a deep gash from the pipe, maybe a pulled muscle. It hung useless, a disobedient ragdoll limb throwing off my balance as I stumbled over rubble and mud, almost eating dirt half a dozen times.
  But all four of us were moving. Luka was on my left, wheezing like a broken bellows, but his eyes were terrifyingly bright. Scarface was ahead to the right, moving through the debris with the agile grace of a true predator. Rat brought up the rear, his skinny frame lurching but never stopping.
  Behind us, the prison sirens had faded to a blurred, constant background whine. But another sound was closer, deadlier—the barking of dogs. Not the yap

Brett&#39;s Perspective
  Bullets whined past my ears. One struck a rusted oil drum with a heavy *thump*, throwing up a shower of blinding sparks. A second shot cracked, then a third, ripping apart the night’s false quiet over the sprawling junkyard.
  &quot;Damn it! They&#39;re shooting!&quot; Scarface roared, instinctively dropping lower. These weren&#39;t rubber bullets or tranquilizers. This was live ammo. The real, lethal kind.
  The four of us—well, now effectively three—scrambled like startled rabbits, weaving a desperate zigzag between mounds of scrap, using every piece of junk as cover. But the pursuers clearly didn&#39;t care if we were taken alive. The &quot;dead&quot; option seemed preferred.
  Luka, already unsteady from his injured arm, was just ahead and to my left. After a shot that sounded too close, he grunted, his body jerking forward before he collapsed to one knee. His right hand clamped over the outside of his left thigh, blood immediately seeping between his 

Chapter 269