Richter's blood dripped between his fingers, staining the cracked leather of his vest black. His good hand twitched toward the revolver at his hip—then froze as Quinn's blade grazed his throat.
"Try it," Quinn murmured. The knife didn't waver. "Please."
Richter's lips peeled back from tobacco-stained teeth. "You kill me, every prisoner in this compound dies screamin'." His boot nudged the whimpering guard clutching his shattered knee. "Ask Phil here what happens to traitors."
The wounded man moaned, his face gray with pain. Martha's fingers dug into Quinn's arm, her breath ragged.
Richter saw the hesitation and grinned. "Smart woman. She knows how this works." He spat blood onto the floor. "Here's my offer, hotshot. You walk out that door with Martha. I forget this ever happened."
The radio on Richter's belt crackled: "Boss? We got movement at the south fence—"
Quinn's blade pressed deeper. A thin line of red welled under Richter's jaw.
"Counteroffer," Quinn said. "Order your men to release every prisoner. Then I decide whether to slit your throat or let you bleed out."
Richter barked a laugh that turned into a wet cough. "You're dumber than you look. Even if I gave the order, you think my boys would—"
Glass shattered.
Richter's remaining kneecap exploded in a spray of bone fragments. He collapsed, howling, as Helen's second rifle shot echoed across the compound.
Quinn didn't flinch. "That's my sniper. She's got the whole yard zeroed." He crouched beside the screaming gang leader, yanking his head up by the hair. "The order."
Martha snatched the radio from Richter's belt. Her voice shook but carried: "All units, this is Richter. Release the prisoners. Now."
Static. Then: "...Boss?"
Quinn pressed the knife to Richter's good eye.
The gang leader gasped: "Do it! Goddammit, DO IT!"
Boots pounded through distant corridors as prisoners stumbled into the hallway—hollow-eyed, swaying. One man with a branded cheek pointed at Richter and spat. "Rot in hell, you bastard."
Martha pressed the radio into Quinn's hand. "They're coming out the east wing too."
Richter clawed at Quinn's wrist. "Deal's a deal. Let me—"
The radio crackled again: "Movement in the trees! We got—" Gunfire drowned the rest.
Sarah's voice hissed through Quinn's earpiece: "Company's here. Three trucks full of armed men—military-grade gear. Richter's got friends higher up the food chain."
Quinn dragged Richter toward the shattered window. Outside, trucks skidded to a halt in the yard, men in tactical vests spilling out. Not raiders. Professionals.
Richter's bloody grin returned. "Told you... should've killed me when—"
Quinn slammed his head against the windowsill. The gang leader sagged, but his fingers twitched toward his boot. A compact pistol flashed in his palm as he tried to bring it up—but Martha was faster. She stomped on his wrist with a sickening crack, snatched the weapon, and put a round between his eyes before he could blink.
"Should've stayed down," she said coldly.
Shouts erupted downstairs. Quinn grabbed Martha's arm. "East wing's cut off. We go now."
They burst into the hallway just as the first soldier rounded the corner. Quinn's bullet took him in the throat, but more poured in behind him. A rifle round grazed Quinn's ribs, another burning across his bicep. He shoved Martha behind cover, returning fire.
Helen's voice crackled: "Diversion ready. On my mark—"
A grenade sailed through the window.
BOOM.
The explosion shook the building, dust and debris raining down. Quinn hauled Martha up, sprinting toward the stairwell as soldiers shouted in confusion.
"Now!" Helen barked.
The compound's fuel depot erupted in a fireball, flames licking the sky. Quinn didn't look back.
They hit the main yard—and skidded to a halt.
Four soldiers blocked the gate, rifles raised. Quinn shoved Martha behind a barrel, his pistol empty, his knife slick with blood.
"Outta moves, son?" one soldier sneered.
A gunshot cracked.
The soldier dropped. Then another. The remaining two whirled—just as a figure dropped from the compound's roof behind them, a machete glinting.
The first soldier died with steel in his spine. The second barely had time to scream before his throat opened like a second mouth.
The stranger straightened, wiping his blade on a dead man's vest. Lean, late 30s, a jagged scar running from eyebrow to jaw. He tossed Quinn a fresh magazine.
"Ramirez," he said, like it explained everything.
Quinn reloaded. "Prisoner?"
"Was." Ramirez jerked his chin toward the gate. "Move. They're flanking the west wall."
Martha gaped. "Why help us?"
Ramirez's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Richter owed me three years. You just paid the debt."
They ran as the compound burned behind them, Helen's covering shots picking off pursuers. Quinn's vision blurred from blood loss, his wounds screaming, but Ramirez's grip kept him upright.
At the tree line, Sarah emerged, dragging a wounded Helen. "Took you long enough."
Ramirez didn't slow. "Keep moving. They'll send hunters."
Quinn glanced back at the inferno. Richter was dead, but the unease in his gut remained. Someone had been pulling the gang leader's strings. Someone higher up the food chain.
Helen shouldered her rifle. "Who's the new guy?"
Sarah fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her vest and tossed it to Ramirez without breaking stride. The scarred man caught it one-handed, tapped one out, and lit it. He took a long drag before speaking.
Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Make yourself at home."
Ramirez exhaled smoke through his nose. "Was planning to."
Quinn spat blood. "Welcome to the team."