Chapter 269

Brett'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. "Damn it! They're shooting!" Scarface roared, instinctively dropping lower. These weren'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't care if we were taken alive. The "dead" 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