Roman grabbed my arm and pulled me down behind a stack of rusted iron pipes.

The smell of wet rust and gunpowder filled the air.

“Stay down,” Roman muttered, his hand heavy on my shoulder.

He fired three shots over the top of the pipes.

One of the militia men fell near the rear tire of the white van.

My father scrambled into the driver’s seat of the van and slammed the door.

The engine roared to life.

He didn’t look back at me as he threw the vehicle into reverse.

The tires shrieked, spinning on the slick wooden planks of the pier.

The van smashed into one of his own militia’s SUVs, pushing it aside.

He accelerated toward the exit, driving right through the gunfire.

Declan’s men fired at the tires, but the van was armored.

It sped past the broken gates and disappeared into the neon-lit maze of the industrial district.

The remaining militia men realized they were outnumbered as Victor Salvi’s security vehicles arrived from the opposite side.

They threw down their weapons and raised their hands in the rain.