Page 144 of Damián

“Sounds like if they lift that plane, they are gone-gone.” I guess.

“Pretty much.”

Yeah, that’s no bueno…

“There is no way we can push through this crossfire in time,” Knox says, and I can tell he is frustrated. “Law, can you take out the pilots?”

“Negative. The cockpit glass is reinforced, and I can’t get a clean shot at the flight deck from this elevation.”

I scan the area, hoping to find a better route or at least a closer trail to the other side of the plane, but there is nothing… And if we don’t—

Wait… is that…?

My eyes lock onto a small fuel truck parked near a hangar about ten yards away. And if that baby has fuel, we might get a chance to stop this.

“Björn, where are you?” I ask in his private line.

“Left side, bored out of my mind behind a concrete barrier. I haven’t moved faster than a jog in ten minutes. I’m dying here, Dami.”

“You want to drive?”

“I always want to drive,” he says, as if that was the stupidest question ever.

And yeah… maybe it was.

“Look at your two o’clock. You see the fuel truck?”

“Ja. You think it is full?”

“Worth a try,” I respond while getting in position to start running. “Are you in?”

“In? Hahahaha! I’ll race you for it.”

I exit Björn’s private line and pass to the main one. “Everyone, Björn and I need cover in two, and stay clear of the runway.”

“What are you doing, Damián?!” Alexios asks, and it’s so cute how worried he sounds.

I mean, I guess Björn and I don’t have the safest ideas on the planet… and sure, we might go overboard most of the time, but we always deliver.

“We are improvisiiing!” Björn sings.

“Oh, shit…” they all say in unison.

But it’s too late!

I break from cover and sprint across the open tarmac.

Bullets instantly hit the concrete at my heels, so I run in anything but a straight line while firing blindly toward them.

And a second later, my brothers are covering me with a beautiful wall of rapid fire.

I reach the passenger door of the fuel truck just as Björn slides across the hood like a freaking action star. He opens the driver-side door, pulling a knife from his vest, and jams it straight into the ignition column.

“Hey, lunatics!” Tae yells over the comms. “Please don’t blow off more than three limbs; I don’t have the equipment for more.”

“Dibs on two limb-medical-thingies,” says Björn as he twists his knife, rips two wires from the steering column, and sparks them together.

“Absolutely not,” I throw myself into the passenger seat and slam the door. “You can’t call dibs on medical supplies. Whoever gets hurt is the one who gets them.”