Page 49 of Victorious: Part 3
Bayou and Grit wedge themselves in beneath the ladder, creating a makeshift platform. One crouches, the other hauls. Hoodoo balances above, catching the victims as we pass them up. A human chain, fueled by muscle andpure fucking will.
I wade into the chaos, grabbing the nearest woman. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, her skin cold as ice. She doesn’t resist as I lift and place her into Grit’s waiting hands.
Another follows.
Then another.
A rhythm builds, fast and desperate.
And then we all jerk as gunfire gains our attention down the corridor. A sharp, detached roar rips through the air. The water lights up in bursts of white flame as gunfire reflects off the flood. The orange flashes explode down the hall, bouncing off the concrete, deafening in the confined space. Bullets chew through the walls, spraying sparks across the surface of the water.
The women scream again, sharper now. Pure animal fear, as everyone drops with terror.
“Get down,” I bellow, shoving two of the women behind a crate and spinning toward the source.
A full squad of Cartel soldiers floods the hallway from the far end. Five, maybe six of them, dark silhouettes backlit by chaos,wading through the rising water like fucking reapers.
They don’t even aim, they just fire. Blind and indiscriminate, hoping to kill something.
Someone.
Anyone.
I drop, water slapping up around me, and fire two controlled bursts. One drops immediately, his head jerks back like it’s been snapped on a string. The other spins as another bullet punches through his side, sending him colliding into the wall, then he slides, disappearing beneath the surface.
Behind me, someone yells, “Reloading!”
Another round punches into the wall inches from my head, the impact thundering in my skull like a sledgehammer. Concrete explodes beside me, shards slicing across my cheek in a hot, stinging spray. The prickle burns, but I don’t have time to register actual pain. I duck my head, shoulder scraping against wet concrete as I shrink behind a half-submerged crate, gasping for breath I don’t have time to take.
Everything is noise, gunfire, screaming, the pounding rush of water crashing through ruptured pipes. A woman behind me shrieks, her hands tangled in her wet hair, blood smearing her temple where debris must have caught her.
When suddenly, Bayou storms into the corridor like a force of nature, a war cry tearing from his throat so primal it seems to shake the air itself. It’s not a sound of fear. It’s fury. The kind of scream a man makes when the people he loves are under threat and there’s no line he won’t cross to protect them.
His Glock is already up before he’s even stopped moving, sights locked. He fires twice. Two sharp, efficient pops. The first Cartel soldier jerks mid-step, blood seeps from his chest, and he crumples sideways, splashing face-first into the rising flood.
The second is mid-turn when the bullet pummels straight into his forehead, snapping his head back, his body crashing like alead weight into the water.
Blood spreads like wildfire across the surface, thick, black in the low light.
But Bayou doesn’t slow.
He doesn’t flinch.
He barrels through the waist-deep water, each step sending shockwaves outward, his boots churning through the filth. Bullets rip past him, one clipping his shoulder, but he doesn’t even register it. His only focus is Hoodoo, who has just finished heaving another semi-conscious woman toward the ladder and is too exposed, too damn vulnerable.
Bayou raises his arm again, then lets off another burst. Controlled and surgical. Two more flashes, and another soldier drops.
Steam curls through the air. Light flickers overhead. The corridor smells like blood, gun smoke, and sewer water. My heart is trying to tear through my ribs with the adrenaline while I hike another woman up the ladder.
“Move!” I roar, hoisting up another. One clings to a metal shelving unit, frozen in place, eyes so wide they look like they might split her face.
So, I grab her, gently, but urgently, my voice softer this time, a thread of calm in the chaos. “We’ve got you. I know this is scary, but youhaveto let us get you out of here. Do you trust me?”
She trembles in my arms, her eyes wide, flooding with tears, and she slowly nods. I guide her forward, one step at a time, toward the ladder. Her legs keep buckling under her, but I don’t let go.
Over my shoulder, the corridor turns into a war zone. Bayou and Hoodoo shoulder to shoulder now, laying down cover fire, buying us precious seconds that feel like a fucking lifetime.
But we’re running out of both.
