Page 202 of Damián

“I see him,” Björn says, flanking me.

We sprint through the crossfire as I grow desperate to end this nightmare for Oliver.

CLACK! CLACK!

We duck as bullets hit the crates around us. As soon as they stop to reload, Björn and I pop out and hit all three of them.

Then we push forward as a duo, clearing a path.

Two cartel men burst out from behind a stack of crates directly in front of us, rifles raised.

I drop to one knee, firing two shots into the man on the left, then pivot to bring down the second man before he can pull the trigger.

To my right, three more shooters open fire on Björn.

Instead of ducking like me, Björn uses one of the wooden crates as a launching pad.

He springs into the air, leaping over the entire thing while shooting at the men. He lands and uses the momentum to drive the anti-slip hilt of his billhook directly into a man who was about to shoot Logan.

“Arrgghh!”

I turn to the scream just in time to see one of Rafael’s men drive a blade deep into Björn’s side. Björn gasps, his light blue eyes wide with shock, and collapses onto the floor.

“Björn!” Tae screams and goes absolutely crazy, abandoning his own cover and firing his pistol as he runs through the crossfire, throwing himself over Björn’s bleeding body.

The sight of Björn falling distracts me longer than it should have, because when I regain my composure and turn around, I find myself face-to-face with an iron bar.

CRACK!

A man hits me with the iron bar right across the jaw.

Pain explodes behind my eyes, and the room starts spinning, the edges fading into a black tunnel.

Fuck…

I stumble back, and my weapon slips from my hands. The guard steps up, grinning as he raises his rifle right at my chest.

I try to move, but my head is still throbbing, and my eyes are blurry. I’m too slow. I can’t move.

Damn it… I flinch, preparing for the impact.

BANG!

The guard screams, dropping his rifle as a bullet tears through his hand.

I blink through the darkness, thankful that my vision is coming back, and look in the direction the bullet came from.

It’s Oliver.

He’s next to me, holding a smoking gun, his hands shaking, his chest heaving under my oversized vest.

Gracias a Dios, he is alright.

“I knew it!” Rafael laughs, stepping into view. “I knew you were a fucking faggot who didn’t have the balls to kill a man.”

Without warning, Rafael raises his own gun and shoots his wounded guard, the one Oliver just shot in the hand, right in the head.

The man drops dead.