Page 84 of Lash

Lorenzo shakes his head and meets her gaze without wavering or looking away. "Sophia went through a hell you cannot ever imagine to give that boy a safe life away from the world he was born into. She gave him to you to protect him, to raise him, and to love him. You have done this. Now, you must trust Sophia. You must trust us. We will keep you safe until Mercado is no longer a threat, and then we will help you find a new place to live." He thumps himself on the chest. "I was there. I saw what she did, what she went through. I helped her escape and I helped her get a new identity and papers for him. I will help you again when this is over. For now, you must come with us and let us protect you."

The gunfire stops abruptly, and Solomon and Scarlett find us—Scarlett is splattered with blood, her face, hands, and chest painted with it. They both have assault rifles held casually across their torsos.

"Threats neutralized," Solomon says. "But we gotta go. There'll be more."

"Everyone okay?” Lorenzo asks.

Solomon nods. "These guys must have been the B-team for some local gang. Couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun from point blank range if their lives depended on it."

The woman and Little Lorenzo have backed away from the bloody specter of Scarlett. I move away from them and toward the pair, speaking in a low tone, trusting Lorenzo to translate.

"We really need to leave now, okay? Pack some clothes and your most important belongings—only things you can carry."

"Will we come back?" The woman asks.

I can only shrug. “Truthfully, I do not know. All I know is that more bad men will come looking for you, and soon. Belongings can be replaced—your lives cannot."

She lets out a shaky breath and then turns to face her son in a crouch, murmuring to him in Spanish. He nods, eyes wide and constantly flicking back to Scarlett."

Lorenzo eyes her. "Maybe you can clean up a bit? You are scaring the boy."

Scarlett rolls her eyes at him, but heads into the bathroom across the hall. "Oh, well shit. No wonder the poor kid looks like he's about to shit himself."

"Exatamente," Lorenzo mutters, more to himself.

A few minutes later, the woman—whose name I still haven't heard—has a duffel bag and a backpack as well as her purse, and Little Lorenzo has his own duffel bag and backpack. They follow us out of the building and stop at the top of the steps, staring. The parking lot is littered with bodies, and one of the SUVs is smoking from the hood.

Kane trots down the steps after us. "Did a quick check of the facing units. It doesn’t seem like anyone got hit by any strays or ricochets. They're pissed and confused, though. We’re gonna have cops on our ass if we don’t get the actual motherfuck out of here."

Solomon claps him on the shoulder. “Good news. Thanks, Kane." He raises his voice. "We need to split up. Take the intact SUV. Nico, Tatiana, Rev, Kane—you take the technical. Nico, I want you on that fifty cal. You so much assmellanyone on our six, light 'em the fuck up. Everyone else, in the SUV."

The technical, it turns out, is a pickup truck with a giant machine gun mounted in the bed. The pickup is an older model four-door pickup with ripped and filthy cloth seats, trash cluttering the footwells, and stinking of cigarettes and body odor. Rev and Kane take one look at the interior, at each other, and then say, "Oh, fuck no," in unison. Within seconds, they've tossed the trash into the backseat of one of the shot-up SUVs. That done, Kane takes the driver's seat, glances at me and pointsat the front passenger seat while Rev sets up in the back seat, laying not one but two assault rifles beside him, along with several boxes of ammunition and a handful of spare magazines. Lash climbs into the bed and immediately goes to work checking the machine gun, testing the movement of the action, running his hands over the belt of bullets, testing the range and smoothness of the tilt and swivel. He crouches and goes over the spare belt of ammunition and then rises and readies the weapon. That done, he takes a seat in the bed and slaps the side a couple times.

The others load into the SUV, Lorenzo behind the wheel; a few moments later, we're heading north. The troop transport we took here has been shot to hell, the tires flattened, the engine filled with holes, and all the glass shattered, which is why we had to split up.

Rev hands me a box of ammunition and several empty magazines. "Tatiana, if and when shit starts to pop off, you're my reloader, yeah? Your job is to make sure I'm never out of fuckin' bullets. When I run out, I'm gonna say 'reload.' That's your cue. When you hear that word, you hand me the other rifle." He passes one of the guns to me and then leans over the console, pointing at a particular button near the handle. "This is the mag release. Press it and the mag will drop out. Slide in a fresh one—tapgently it to make sure it's in place.Do notwhack it, that's TV bullshit and you’ll cause a jam. So. I say 'reload' and we switch. Then, while I'm shooting, you put in a new mag and refill the empty one. Got it?"

I nod. "Yes, I understand. I am familiar with pistols as my father made me practice with him at the shooting range once every week for my whole life, and I do havesomeexperience with bigger guns like this one."

He nods. "Good. Let's practice. Safety on?" He watches as I check the safety, nods again when I am sure it's engaged. "Okay. Reload!"

I pass him the gun but fumble it in my haste. "Shit," I say in Croatian and then address him in English. "I am sorry. Try again."

"This is why we practice," he says. "Remember—slow is smooth and smooth is fast. Don't try to hurry."

"Slow is smooth and smooth is fast," I repeat. "Okay."

He hesitates, puts the gun to his shoulder, and then down. “Reload!”

I exchange with him, this time focusing on smoothness rather than speed, and it works perfectly. The exchange goes well, and I release the magazine, pick up another full one, slide it in, and tap it home. We exchange again, and I switch mags again. We practice the exchange several more times until it’s smooth. I glance at Nico through the rear window and find him watching me. He gives me a smile and a nod and then goes back to scanning our back trail.

The first hour is uneventful and boring, passing cars and fields and forests and the occasional town or village.

And then it happens.

A caravan of four SUVs, black Suburbans identical to the ones in the compound, pass us heading south. They see us, and brakes squeal as they make hurried U-turns. Nico keys his radio, and I hear his voice through the window and from the radio sitting in the cupholder in front of Kane.

"Contact! Four hostile vehicles."