Van signaled to Jane. Her eyes narrowed in understanding, and she pulled a grenade from her pack.

  She yanked the pin and rolled the live grenade across the roof, stopping it five meters from the access door.

  They flattened themselves against the roof as the steel door below was flung open.

  The explosion was deafening. The steel frame twisted and deformed. Shrapnel and metal fragments screamed over Van's back.

  The impact slammed into his gut. He tasted copper and spat blood.

  The roof now had a small crater. The access structure was a mangled ruin. On the stairs below, several cartel members writhed and screamed.

  Van shook off the dizziness and risked a glance with the shotgun.

  A less-injured young man saw him and fired.

  Van jerked back, heart pounding. Not hit.

  He set his jaw, thrust the Benelli around the corner, and fired.

  Spanish curses followed. Van didn't stop. Adjust, fire. Adjust, fire. He emptied the magazine into the areas he'd glimpsed, then changed position.

  Five mangled bodies lay on the ruined staircase.

  Van crawled back to Jane, reloading. "Five down."

  Jane was trembling, having watched shrapnel and shards of steel barely miss Van's spine. "What now?" Her confidence against living targets had vanished.

  "Give me another grenade," Van growled.

  He yanked open the skylight hatch they'd originally used and hurled a primed grenade toward the last known position.

  Another blast. He ran to the main access and tossed a second one down the stairs.

  Jane, peering from cover at the first floor, hissed, "He's running!"

  Van took a breath, meeting her eyes. "Three left. We're pinned. They have the advantage."

  Jane forced her trembling under control. "You want to push?"

  Van nodded, grabbing the last grenade. "I go first. Clear the area, then you follow."

  He pulled the pin, tossed the grenade through the skylight, and after the blast, grabbed the edge and dropped down.

  He hit the floor in a roll, coming up with the Benelli ready.

  The store was a charnel house. Rotter bodies and congealing blood made the floor slick under his canvas shoes. The remaining cartel members were nowhere in sight.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  He gave Jane a thumbs-up. She dropped the rifle and his pack down, then he helped her climb down.

  They surveyed the grenade-ravaged shop. Miraculously, the ammunition stocks hadn't cooked off.

  The half-destroyed second-floor platform was littered with gore. Navigating the ground floor was a macabre obstacle course.

  Back to back, they moved cautiously toward the first floor.

  A low moan came from a corner. Van aimed. A rotter, missing its lower half, was chewing on a cartel member—the one who had suppressed them from below. Van's first grenade had caught him.

  Trapped and out of ammo, he'd become rotter food.

  Jane asked him something in rapid Spanish, then turned to Van. "He doesn't know where the others went." She raised her hunting rifle and put a bullet through the man's head.

  Van stared, surprised.

  "He asked for it," Jane said flatly, ejecting the spent casing.

  They dispatched the last few rotters. At the ammunition section, they stuffed every compatible round they could find into their packs.

  Van, scanning the perimeter, noticed the missing pickup outside. "Their truck's gone."

  "We leave. Now." Van shouldered his heavy pack. Jane grabbed another empty one, hurriedly stuffing in clean fatigues, body armor, and two pairs of desert boots.

  She piled the gear. "The office behind the fire door! There's a laptop!"

  Remembering the USB drive, Van nodded. "I cover. Grab it and we're gone."

  Jane pushed the fire door open with her shotgun.

  A figure lunged from inside.

  "Danger!" Van shouted.

  A cartel member had his left arm locked around Jane's neck, a tactical knife at her throat with his right. "Drop the gun!"

  Van kept the Benelli trained on him. Jane slowly let her shotgun fall to the floor.

  "You too! Drop it! Or I slit her throat!" the man yelled in English.

  Van saw Jane blinking rapidly at him. A signal?

  He lowered his muzzle slightly. "Let her go, and you walk."

  "The Sun God has sent his messengers! My purpose is to live to see him!" the man ranted.

  "Your friends left you. Drove off." Van placed his shotgun on the ground, trying to bait him. Was this the last one? Five on the stairs. One eaten. Six of eight confirmed dead.

  "He was scared off by the messengers! The faithless are punished first!" The man pressed the blade, drawing a bead of blood from Jane's neck.

  Van raised his hands, edging closer.

  Jane's eyes darted down toward her pocket. Van understood. The little revolver.

  "Your Sun God," Van said, now within five meters. "Can he beat Hongjun?"

  The man faltered. "Hongjun? What is that?!"

  Jane's hand was in her pocket. She adjusted the angle and fired through the fabric.

  BANG!

  The bullet tore through her cargo pants and into the man's thigh.

  He howled and drove the knife toward her neck.

  Jane's left hand flew up, desperately gripping his wrist, but she was overpowered.

  Van was already moving. As the gunshot echoed, he closed the distance. His right hand shot out and clamped around the sharp edge of the blade just before it pierced Jane's skin.

  Blood instantly welled and dripped, but he felt no pain. Adrenaline surging, he drove his left fist into the man's right wrist.

  Wounded in the leg and struck in the arm, the fanatic stumbled sideways.

  Jane shoved the knife hand away and wrenched herself free.

  Van locked the man's right arm, his bloody right hand now joining his left on the man's fist. He pulled down with his left, forced up with his right.

  The fanatic's own knife was driven into his throat.

  SCHLICK.

  Van held him down as he choked on his own blood, eyes glazing over.