Page 35 of Pietro
Glass explodes.
My body moves before thought, tackling Nora behind the heavy metal desk as windows shatter in sequence. Bullets punch through where we stood a heartbeat ago, tearing chunks from the wall.
She's beneath me, my weight pressing her into the floor. Her heart is fast, a frantic beat I feel through my own chest. There’s no panic in her eyes. They’re wide, pupils blown, but they’retracking the room, assessing the broken windows, the angles. Calculating.
"How many?" Her breath warms my jaw.
I count muzzle flashes through the destroyed window. "Four. Maybe five."
"Your men?"
"Dead or gone." The words taste like ash. Fabio wouldn't abandon his post. Which means?—
More glass shatters. They're moving, trying to flank us.
I rise enough to return fire, three controlled shots that send our attackers scrambling for cover. The dock provides too many hiding spots—shipping containers, equipment, vehicles.
Movement in my peripheral snaps my attention to the left. Nora's reaching for something.
"Don't—"
She's already grabbed the security guard's weapon from beside the overturned chair. The Beretta looks massive in her hands, but she checks the magazine.
"I'm not hiding while you get shot." She chambers a round.
Another burst of gunfire drives us lower. They're getting bolder, pressing the advantage of numbers.
"On three, we move for the door." I eject the spent magazine, slam a fresh one home. "Stay low, stay behind me."
"Like hell."
Before I can argue, she’s up. The Beretta barks in her hands, her shots making the attackers dive for cover. Her aim is raw, but it’s enough. It gives us the second we need.
We move.
Out the door, into the maze of shipping containers. My hand finds her wrist, pulling her behind a forklift as bullets spark off metal. Her breathing stays controlled, measured. No hyperventilating, no freezing up.
Who the fuck is this woman?
"Car's thirty yards." I gesture toward the SUV. "Wide open ground."
"They'll cut us down."
She's right. The attackers have positioned themselves perfectly, covering our escape route. Professional enough to plan this, amateur enough to give us warning shots first.
"Trust me." The words slip out before I can stop them.
Her green eyes lock on mine. One heartbeat. Two. Then she nods.
I pull a smoke grenade from my jacket—old habit, keeping one handy. The canister arcs through the air, billowing gray clouds across the dock. Irish accents echo. Perfect.
"Now."
We run.
Bullets crack past, blind fire through smoke. Nora matches my stride, the Beretta steady in her grip. Twenty yards. Ten. Five.
The passenger door takes three hits as I shove her inside, glass crazing but holding—bulletproof, worth every penny. I slide across the hood, action-movie style that would be ridiculous if we weren't taking fire, and dive behind the wheel.
