Page 54 of Resilience

Sam realized just then that the gate, which he knew for a fact had been closed and locked when he was on watch, was now standing open. He’d seen it while he watched the cars, but it hadn’t registered.

“It’s Jordan,” he said, without a single qualm about making the accusation. “Gate was locked when he took over for me, and he just put the garage door up.”

“The fuck he did!” Geno yelled. The party room was now becoming a chaotic scrum of Bulls trying to pull their shit together as fast as they could.

“We gotta get out there,” Gun said. “They’re goin’ for the motherfuckin’ garage!”

“Where’s Dex?” Sam called. Dex was the lead on this run.

“Where’s Coop?” Jay echoed.

“I’m here!” Cooper called, running down from the loft. His arms were full of guns. “There’s seven of ‘em, whoever they are.”

“Dex is in the bunkhouse. Fitz and Caleb, too,” Zach said, grabbing an AK and handing it to Sam. “Sam, run out there and get ‘em. Maybe we can flank these bastards.”

Sam nodded and ran to the back. The others were loading up and heading to the front.

About ten steps from the clubhouse, the shooting started up front. His heart beating so wildly he thought it might burst straight through his ribs, Sam tripled his speed.

When he flew through the door of the nearest bunkhouse, he almost got a face full of lead. Dex was on his feet and aimed right at him.

He pulled up as soon as he saw it was Sam. “What the fuck is goin’ on?”

Sam struggled to keep his voice calm enough to be clear. “Ambush. Coop says seven guys. They’re after the cargo.” Another barrage of gunfire split the night.

“Fuck!” Fitz yelled. They were both fully dressed, even their boots on.

“Do you know how to shoot that thing?” Dex asked Sam, nodding at the AK.

Sam shook his head, and Dex snatched it away. “Use your sidearm, then. Stay back, stay low. Be ready to cover whoever needs cover. But don’t you run out ahead.”

Unable to form another word, Sam nodded. When Dex hurried through the bunkhouse door, Fitz followed, and Sam took the rear.

Caleb and Monty were already outside, ready to run forward, but Dex held them up. “We go together, around the other side of the garage. Try to flank them. We can’t lose that cargo. Run!”

They ran. Sam’s chest was on fire, but he wasn’t afraid, exactly. He was trying so hard to see everything, to do what he was told and not fuck up, there wasn’t room in his head for fear.

As they ran through the dark, passing the wide space between the clubhouse and the garage, Sam looked toward the front. He saw the cars—black sedans, he thought, apparently Teslas, if Gun was right, which would account for the lack of engine noise—and he saw men crouching and running amid bright bursts of gunfire, but he couldn’t tell who was who.

“Fuck!” Dex whisper-roared. “Faster!” He kicked in a new gear, and everybody kept pace with him.

They came around the far side of the garage, onto a chaotic scene. Bodies were on the ground, but who? It was too dark to know.

“Sam! Monty! Cover the van!” Dex shouted. Sam veered to the right and ran into the garage. Monty was right behind him. Without having to say it, they split, doing the perimeter of the van in opposite directions.

When Sam turned at the rear bumper, he came face to face with Jordan, and they both pulled up short.

Sam had his Sig in his hand, ready to fire but not aimed. Jordan had a shotgun held across his body.

Sam wanted to ask him what he’d done, and why he’d done it, but he caught the motion when Jordan began to swing that Mossberg forward. Without thinking, Sam aimed and fired. The bullet struck Jordan dead-center in his chest.

Jordan fired as he fell, and buckshot sprayed in an upward arc. Sam ducked and jumped out of the way, but he felt the punches of a few pellets. Holy shit, that hurt.

The pain was enough to make him dizzy and queasy, and blood began to flow down his arm and chest, but he was still on his feet, so he ran forward.

Monty was on the floor, unconscious and bleeding from somewhere around his head. Sam crouched quickly and found a pulse, so he moved on. He wasn’t making actual decisions, was barely processing anything happening. He was acting purely on instinct, and that instinct drove him toward the fight.

Suddenly, the van’s engine roared to life. Sam whipped around and saw someone behind the wheel, no more than a person-shaped black blob. He aimed at that blob as the van jumped backward out of the garage, but his shot went wide. When he tried to aim again, his vision went wonky and he lost the chance before the van whipped around.

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