Page 45 of Rage & Paradise
“Fuck!” Vado roars. I look up as Coca drags Estrella behind the bar. A masked Cano arm punches through a window, grabs Vado’s kutte and yanks. He is halfway out when I hit him low and rip him back inside. Glass bites his cheek and paints a thin red line. Another inch and we would be mourning.
“Shields, ahora!” Lobo bellows.
We fall back by sectors. Vado had the main floor rebuilt with steel-backed alcoves and pillar covers. They look like decor until you squat behind them and hear rounds ping like angry bees. Spin kills the overhead lights and the room drops to a dim pulse from the party cans. The sprinklers keep misting. It smells like wet leather and cordite.
“Lines one and two, suppress. Lines three and four, pick targets,” AZ commands, cool and clean.
I shoulder up behind a shield wall with Digger, Lobo, and Pooh. On the far flank AZ and Carina anchor another cover point. Our girls get the remaining civilians down the tunnel hatch and dog it.
The first Cano through the doorway tries to stand and spray. We cut him off. Two controlled bursts and he drops. Another idiot dives across open floor and eats tile. We do not waste bullets. Heads, shoulders, weapon hands. Pick and place.
“Right window,” Pooh calls. “Two. One with a shotgun.”
“I have the shotty,” Digger answers.
He leans out for a clean angle, squeezes twice, and the shotgun clatters on the sill.
“Puerta lateral,” Lobo warns. “Three incoming.”
“Flash,” I say, and AZ arcs a small canister. It pops white and the three stumble blind. We tag them before they find their feet.
“Juracanos my ass,” Digger laughs, then jerks hard as a round punches his shoulder. A spray of pink mist mixes with sprinkler rain.
“Digger’s hit!” I lunge, hook my arm under his good side, and drag him behind the shield. Blood pours warm over my wrist.
“Estoy bien,” he grits, jaw clenched. “In and out.”
“Pressure,” I order. Pooh slaps a compressed bandage into my palm. I cram it into the wound and wrap tight while Lobo fires short bursts to keep heads down.
“Stay with me,” I tell Digger. “Mira me.”
He nods, pale but steady. “Still got my trigger hand.”
“Then use it.”
He does. From his knee he picks a target and drops him with one clean shot.
The Canos keep coming, but they are sloppy. We are not. Vado moves like a shadow, barking sectors and shifting fire. AZ runs ammo to the flanks between bursts. Pooh calls angles, his voice a calm metronome. Every time a head peeks, someone puts it back down.
A pipe somewhere snaps and the sprinkler rain becomes a hard curtain. The water beads on our shields and turns the floor into a slick mirror. Smoke tries to crawl in. The suppression fans chew it to a fog.
“Reload,” Lobo says. “Short and sweet.”
We cycle mags in a tight rhythm. The moment the last seat clicks home, a lull falls. The return fire thins. The doorway is a pile of groaning bodies and dropped pistols.
“They are breaking,” AZ calls. “Left flank is clear.”
“Push them,” Vado orders. “No one gets behind us.”
We surge in a staggered line from alcove to alcove. Pick, plant, fire. Pick, plant, fire. A Cano makes a run, slips on the wet tile, and eats a boot from Lobo that sends him sliding into a table leg.
“Exterior bikes rolling,” Pooh says, head cocked, listening. “Engines pulling back.”
“Keep the pressure,” Vado growls. “They chose this.”
We are winning. I can feel it in my bones. The line holds. The return fire turns desperate. One by one, the Canos drop their weapons or crawl for the street.
I risk a glance down the bar. Coca has Estrella tucked in behind a wine fridge shield with Prissy and Dulce, whispering fast and fierce into Estrella’s ear. Estrella’s eyes are glassy, but she is breathing. She is here.
