Page 55 of Brick's Retribution

The man moves like a predator—controlled, efficient, deadly.

Behind us, flashlight beams sweep the darkness as our hunters spread out to search the surrounding area.

"There." Brick points to a narrow gap between two buildings. "We can lose them in the residential district."

But as we approach the gap, gunfire erupts from the rooftops above.

Muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness as bullets spark off concrete walls around us.

"Snipers!" I shout, pressing myself against the nearest wall.

Brick is already moving, his gun coming up to return fire at the rooftop positions.

His shots are precise, controlled bursts that force the snipers to take cover.

"We need to get off the street," he says, reloading with practiced efficiency. "They've got overwatch on all the main escape routes."

I scan our surroundings, looking for options.

The alley is a killing field now, with elevated positions providing perfect fields of fire.

But there—a drainage tunnel, barely visible in the shadows beneath a concrete overpass.

"Storm drain," I say, pointing to the tunnel entrance. "It connects to the city's underground system."

More gunfire erupts, this time from ground level as foot teams close in on our position.

We're caught in a crossfire between rooftop snipers and advancing assault teams.

"Go!" Brick shouts, laying down covering fire as I sprint toward the drainage tunnel. "I'll be right behind you!"

I reach the tunnel entrance and turn back to see Brick fighting with at least three assailants at once.

He moves like a machine, dropping targets with ruthless efficiency.

But as he turns to follow me, a sniper's bullet catches him high on the left shoulder, spinning him around and sending him stumbling.

"Brick!" I scream, starting back toward him.

"Stay back!" he growls, clutching his shoulder as blood seeps between his fingers.

But he's still moving, still fighting, using his good arm to return fire while backing toward the tunnel.

A second bullet grazes his ribs, opening up his previous wound.

Now there's blood soaking through his shirt on both sides, but he keeps moving, keeps shooting, keeps protecting me even as his own life bleeds away.

He reaches the tunnel entrance and practically falls through, his face pale with blood loss but his eyes still fierce.

I help him deeper into the tunnel where we'll have some cover. "Jesus, you're hit bad."

"I'll live," he grunts, though the amount of blood suggests otherwise. "We need to keep moving."

"Like hell," I reply firmly. "You're bleeding out. Sit down and let me look at it."

For once, he doesn't argue.

Maybe because he's too weak from losing blood, or maybe because he recognizes the medical authority in my voice.

---