The smell hit first—burned rubber, gasoline, and the sharp, hot stink of oil leaking from somewhere ahead.

Elias crouched beside the second truck’s door, one hand flattening against the metal while he listened past the wind.

Up front, the lead vehicle crawled toward the bridge like the world hadn’t emptied half its magazine at them already.

Zubair drove.

Sera leaned against the open window frame with her eyes locked on the barricade straddling the far side.

Nothing moved yet.

But that never meant nothing was there.

"Left tower," Alexei murmured through the truck’s radio, voice tin-dry, clipped short. "Scope flash. They’re waiting."

Elias had already seen it, the sunlight bending off a cheap lens, too quick to be a mistake. Cartel rifles didn’t hide well when their owners wanted to be theatrical.

He didn’t bother answering.

Two years ago, he would have pulled the map, measured angles, plotted distances down to the half meter before making the shot.

Now he judged the wind in one breath, leaned across the hood, and set his cheek against the stock.

The man in the tower never finished leaning into position.

One pull.

The scope flash vanished.

Heat rippled off the hood. Zubair had the engine idling low, patient, like the big machine knew the men behind the barricade would break before they did.

The second tower shifted.

Elias chambered again, wrist turning easy.

Another shot punched air. Wood splinters kicked off the platform before the man dropped out of view.

That got them moving.

Figures boiled up behind the sandbag wall across the bridge—scarves over faces, leather vests, machetes hanging off belts next to modern rifles. Two men dragged chains across the bridge entrance, locking the last length into place. Another flipped a metal drum upright and lit the rag stuffed in its throat.

The barricade turned flame-orange in the wind.

Zubair leaned his elbow against the window like the sight didn’t bother him.

Sera hadn’t moved at all.

Elias tracked the man with the lighter fluid can until he bolted behind a burned-out car, then switched to the one hauling a crate toward the center barricade.

Too far for the pistol.

He pulled the rifle closer, lined through the smoke, and took the shot.

The crate flipped when the man went down.

Two rifles behind the sandbags opened up wild and fast, bullets spraying low across the bridge supports like noise would do what aim couldn’t.

Concrete chipped gray dust into the air.

The second truck door opened behind Elias. Lachlan dropped to the pavement with the long grin that meant someone was about to regret letting him off the leash.

"Two on the left flank, one right," Elias told him, voice calm enough to be ice. "Tower’s clear."

Lachlan rolled his shoulders once, then crossed the open strip between trucks with bullets slapping sparks behind him.

He hit the far side barrier at a run, used the momentum to launch himself over, and disappeared into the smoke with the kind of laugh people usually made before doing something illegal.

Cartel rifles shifted after him.

Elias leaned out and took two in the ribs before they finished turning. Both fell across the sandbags without grace.

Movement off the left treeline—three shapes sprinting low through weeds with canisters under their arms.

Molotov cocktails.

The first bottle arced before Elias reached them.

Fire burst across the front corner of the lead truck, licking black scars up the metal.

Zubair didn’t move from the wheel. Heat flared under his skin until the flames guttered out, fuel burning off too fast to catch.

The second runner got closer.

Elias waited for him to pull back his arm before dropping him mid-throw. Glass and fire hit short, painting the concrete ten feet from the tires.

The third one turned to run.

A single shot made sure he didn’t.

Over the barricade, Lachlan’s machete gleamed once, then bit through somebody’s collarbone deep enough to jam halfway. The scream didn’t last long.

Another rifleman popped up behind the burned-out car. Elias clipped his knee first shot, throat the second.

Alexei’s truck engine revved once—short, sharp.

"Right side," his voice cut through the radio. "More coming."

Elias caught motion through the heat shimmer—two bikes rolling fast down the embankment toward the bridge edge. Riders carried poles with the same chained collars they’d seen before, only this time the things on the leashes weren’t human.

Dogs.

Or what used to be dogs.

They had scars all over their muzzles, their ribs showing through hides stretched too thin, and their eyes glass-black and wrong.

The creatures pulled against the chains until the bikes fishtailed across the pavement trying to hold them.

The first handler swung too close to Lachlan’s side of the fight. The chain went slack when Lachlan cut his arm open from elbow to wrist. The thing on the leash hit the handler before he hit the ground.

The second dog saw Sera.

It didn’t make it three steps before a round took the back of its skull off.

Elias worked the bolt once, clean, without looking away from the next target behind the sandbags.

Zubair eased the truck forward another six feet. The barricade burned higher where the crate had spilled fuel across the center span.

Smoke pushed low across the bridge, turning everything into heat-shadows and silhouettes moving wrong behind it.

More rifles on the far side opened up wild. Bullets punched the front grill. One cracked the windshield corner and left a spiderweb across the glass.

Zubair’s hand lifted off the wheel. Heat shimmered over the hood until the air itself bent enough to throw the next two shots wide.

Elias tagged the rifleman who hadn’t learned yet.

Another Molotov came high from the left.

Alexei froze the bottle mid-arc. It hit the pavement solid and rolled without fire before shattering cold across the concrete.

"Appreciate it," Lachlan’s voice carried flat from somewhere inside the smoke. Then another scream cut off hard.

Elias chambered, fired, chambered again. Every shot cleared space ahead of the lead truck. Every shot bought them another foot of bridge.

One of the cartel trucks on the far side tried to start, maybe to block them halfway. Zubair lifted his hand. Heat rolled off his palm in a wave that turned the truck hood from red to white before the engine caught.

The men inside bailed out the passenger side on fire.

And that was when Sera finally moved.