Page 32 of Victorious: Part 3
They aren’t sloppy.
They aren’t scared.
They’re trained killers.
Suddenly, I hear a sharp, guttural grunt, and then a body slams to the floor.
“Lift!” I shout, spinning just in time to see him stagger out from behind a steel crate. Blood instantly spreads across his side, dark and wet. He collapses backward like a lead weight, landing hard on the concrete.
“Shit! Fuck!No!” Vibe dives toward him, gunfire sparking off the floor near his boots.
“I got him!” I bolt from cover, throwing wild shots behind me to keep the Cartel’s heads down. I slide in beside Lift, grabbing him under the arms and dragging his heavy-ass frame behind a stack of pallets.
His face is pale, jaw clenched so tight I think he might break his teeth. “Son of a bitch got me, Pres,” he grunts, fingers slick with blood as he tries to press on the wound.
“You’re still breathin’,” I snap, dropping to my knees and shoving my hand over the wound. Blood seeps between my fingers, hot and fast. “Which means you ain’t dyin’ yet!”
“I can still shoot,” Lift growls.
“You’ll shoot when I say you shoot. Right now, your job is to stay the fuck conscious.”
“It’s just a scratch,” he lies, switching to his pistol, clearly ignoring me.
“Bullshit. Vibe, get a pressure bandage on him,” I order, and Vibe ruffles through whatever he can find to create a bandage,then applies it to Lift’s side.
“Torque!” Trax shouts over the gunfire. “They’re pushing left.”
“Hold that flank,” I bark, my voice echoing off the corrugated steel and concrete walls as more bullets tear into the crates shielding us. Splinters spray across my face. The roar of Trax’s weapon echoes close behind me, the rhythmic blast of his shots matching the pulse pounding in my skull.
Lift is still breathing, propped up with Vibe pressing hard on his side, but we’re boxed in.
These motherfuckers aren’t letting up, not even a fraction.
But neither are we.
Gunfire keeps coming, an unrelenting storm of hot lead.
No pause.
No mercy.
They’re trying to break us.
They’re trying to drown us in bullets.
But Chicago doesn’t bend.
We bite back.
“Reloading,” Ace shouts.
Surge hollers back, “I got you!” as he stands and unleashes a hail of cover fire, sweeping left to right with brutal precision.
I lean out from behind a metal drum just long enough to fire off a few rounds before diving back, bullets ricocheting past my head, the heat of a stray slices my shoulder. “Fuck!” I groan, pressing my hand to my skin, blood seeping through my cut.
Blood trickles down my arm, but I ignore it as I look out at my men. “They’re tryin’ to pin us down,” I shout. “Keep movin’. Don’t let ’em surround us.”
“Torque, come in…” Surge’s voice crackles through the comms, rough with strain. “We got civilians in the office wing. The Cartel’s using them like meat shields. I can see them through the damn glass.”
