Page 1 of Lucky Strike

1.Lucky

Prologue

“You shouldn’t be here,” Tristan murmurs, sliding the mask down over his face.

“Why’s that?” My eyes are on my phone, glued to a small, pulsing red dot that hasn’t moved in nine minutes. The tracker’s coordinates. We’re approximately four minutes out from the truck.

“Because if anything happens to you, we’re fucked.”

Three minutes. “And what about you?”

A soft huff. “I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

“Focus, Tristan.” Shoving the phone into my tactical pants, I make sure my backups are where they should be. A pair of tanto knives, a Glock 19. If things go as planned, I won’t even have to use them.

Finn cuts the Defender’s headlights, switching on his night-vision goggles as we take the last turn. “There they are.”

I look up, zeroing in on the stalled semi ahead, its brake lights glowing in the dark like a vampire’s eyes. Two vans flank its sides, their headlights piercing the isolated stretch of highway ahead. My heartbeat goes double time as I take in the eerie scene, and I say a silent prayer. “Pull over.”

Finn obeys, bringing us to a slow stop on the soft shoulder. Malachiglances back from the passenger seat, tossing Tristan and me our night goggles. I slip mine on, snatch my Zastava AK from the floor between my feet, and open the door. Worst-case scenarios tease at the edges of my thoughts but I shut that shit down and let the fear sharpen my senses instead.

Focus.

Time slows, the sensation at odds with the seconds hurtling us toward whatever we’re about to find. Malachi shadows me as I approach the truck’s driver side while Tristan and Finn mirror us on the left, silent, guns drawn. Voices drift from the semi’s rear doors the closer we get, and when we’re about ten feet away, someone hops out. They’re in black tactical gear, just like us. I know from Omar’s last text that two of our men are down. I don’t know about the other two, and for that reason, we can’t just blindly shoot.

Leaving Finn and Tristan to cover the back, Malachi and I creep forward to check the situation in the driver’s seat. My heart sinks. Omar’s down. That’s three, leaving just Robbie unaccounted for. Gunshots ring out, shattering the silence. Not ours; we use silencers, and these shots were loud enough to be heard for miles. Then two more shots—those were ours.

Malachi and I return to the back, where two men lie motionless on the ground. One of the vans suddenly peels out, getting about two hundred feet away before Tristan shoots out its back tires. It spins out, coming to an abrupt stop on the other side of the road. Someone jumps out, firing, but I dispose of him with one shot, unwilling to lose any more of my men tonight.

Climbing into the back of the truck, I find Robbie lying on his stomach, breathing shallowly. His pulse is faint, but steady. “Robbie, it’s me.”

“Lucky?”

“Yeah.”

“Lucky,” he whispers. “They killed Omar.”

His best friend. My throat tightens, and I reach out, carefully resting my hand on his back. “I know.”

“They knew exactly where we’d be, what time. How’d they…” He drifts off, gasping in pain.

“We’ll figure it out. Where’re you hit?”

“Leftside. Just below my ribs.”

“Think we can move you?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Yeah.”

I motion to my cousin, his face unreadable in the dark. “Help me move him, Finn.”

“There were six or seven of ‘em.” Robbie groans as Finn and I carry him to the Defender. “Four vans.”

“So, two vans got away,” I confirm, pressing a towel to the wound in his side.

“I’m sorry, Lucky?—”

“Shut up.” Ripping my goggles off, I grab his face so that he’ll look me in the eye. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” He nods, face wet with tears and blood. “Stay with him,” I tell Finn.

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