He looked older than he had an hour ago, his wet hair plastered to his forehead.

But his eyes were sharp, cold, and focused.

“They have the high ground,” Romano said, squinting up at the crane.

“The sniper is shifting angles,” I agreed.

I looked at Marcus, whose face had gone a dangerous shade of gray.

“Can you walk?” I asked him.

Marcus didn’t answer; his eyes were rolling toward the gray sky.

“We carry him,” Romano said simply.

I looked at the aging boss, surprised by the strength in his voice.

“You take his left side,” I said. “I’ll cover our rear.”

Romano nodded, grabbing Marcus under his good arm.

I stood up and fired three shots toward the approaching muzzle flashes.

One of the men in tactical gear grunted and fell behind a stack of lumber.

“Move!” I shouted.

We staggered back into the maze of the shipping yard, the rain stinging our faces.

Every step was a struggle against the mud and the weight of the wounded man.

Behind us, the remaining shooters kept up a steady rhythm of fire.