follows me, grabbing other men as we go, ducking and darting to avoid the gunfire and keep our heads on. We circle a shipping container to find three Armenians standing over the body of one of my men. I let loose with rapid-burst fire, taking them all out in one sweep.
We pick up speed once we reach a corner of the dockyard they haven’t infiltrated yet, making our way toward the convoy of their parked cars and trucks. Then, we scatter, each of us taking a hiding place behind or on the side of a vehicle and looking for the best vantage point.
I crouch beside a Hummer and let loose while bullets strike the cars around me, some coming close enough to have me on edge.
Between changing magazines, I pause and check my watch, noting that the firefight has been going on for about five minutes. It won’t be long before the cops are alerted, and even with officers on my payroll there will be consequences for this. The boys in blue will come in guns blazing, shooting first and asking questions later. We need to get the hell out of here.
I start creeping forward, trying to get closer. Ducking behind another car, I fire off some shots and then crouch when a flurry of bullets pelts the open doors and slams them closed.
Peering from around the car again, I notice that a group of the Armenians has made their way in the direction of my containers, the valuable cargo they came here to steal. I start edging around cars in their direction, pulling away from my men and going into a shadowy area giving me the perfect vantage point.
I only manage to fire off a few bursts before something slams into the back of my head, throwing me to my knees. I roll to my feet and lift my rifle, only for it to be kicked from my hands. Quickly going for my Glock, I fire at the man coming at me with his own gun raised, landing a perfect shot in the center of his forehead. As he goes down, four others close in around me, and through the haze of my battered head I make out snatches of Armenian conversation.
I hear Jamie screaming at me through the earpiece, then alerting the others to my attack.
But it’s too late. I only manage to shoot one of them in the leg before someone attacks me from behind, delivering another blow that nearly knocks me unconscious. My pistol skitters out of my reach.
My vision is swimming, but I can clearly see the barrel of a gun pointed directly at me. The first shot hits to the left of my sternum, dropping me to my knees and knocking the wind from me. Two more hit me so fast I have to assume they came from separate guns, throwing me onto my back. One of them strikes me in the ribs, and the other tears into the flesh of my shoulder, sending a searing heat down my left arm.
As I lay on the ground struggling to breath and feeling as if a truck just plowed through my chest, I hear the pounding of boots and more gunfire, more screams, more death. My arm is wet and sticky with blood, my shoulder throbbing and sending tongues of fire though my entire body.
“Diego! Diego, stay with me!”
Jovan’s face appears above me, and he presses something over the wound in my shoulder to apply pressure. I can’t even scream even though it hurts like hell. I can hardly breathe, let alone make a sound. Every intake of breath is precious and seem to become scarcer as I lay there listening to the fight rage on around me.
“I’ll fucking kill you if you die, you motherfucker,” Jovan growls, still holding the fabric to my shoulder while tearing the black bandanna from around his neck and using it to tie a tourniquet.
“Too … much … blood,” I rasp.
I’m soaked in it, the hot, coppery liquid drenching my shirt and pooling around me. It’s in my hair, coating my hands, and drowning me in pain.
“Bullshit,” Jovan says, giving me a little shake as my eyelids start to lower. “It’s a scratch. Suck it up. Elena’s waiting for you, man. You can’t fucking die … she’ll strangle me with her bare hands.”
For some reason, the mental image that gives me is hilarious and I start laughing. Then, I bellow as it sends sharp daggers through my torso. My screams