The gunman paused, his head turning toward the sound of the buzzing phone.

He frowned, his eyes scanning the darkness near the crates.

He took a step toward me.

The fuel reached the hot metal of the car’s exhaust pipe.

A small hiss of steam rose into the cold air.

I held my breath, waiting for the spark.

The red laser dot on Vincent’s chest did not move.

Vincent’s finger tightened on the trigger.

The phone on the ground lit up one more time.

The screen showed a text message.

I stared at the glowing letters in the dark.

The words made my blood run cold.

The text was from a number labeled only with a series of zeros.

It read: *Valenti’s men are at the south gate. Kill both Moretti and Derek. We take the city tonight.*

My throat went completely dry.

Before I could process the words, a spark jumped from the frayed wiring of the car’s broken tail light.

The gasoline vapor caught with a soft, blue *whoosh*.

A wall of low, orange fire erupted along the wet gravel, cutting directly between Vincent and the gunman.