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The Tahoe’s rear doors opened, and two men stepped out onto the street, looking around to check for witnesses. Colt felt an ice-cold fear grip his insides when he saw that the men each cradled a submachine gun. They were too far away for him to make out what kind, but it didn’t really matter.

Rubbing his hand lightly on her back, he kept repeating the hushed plea of “Shhh… don’t move,” while searching frantically around his lap for the pistol he had been holding before they wrecked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man to his left — the one who had exited from the Tahoe’s passenger side — spin toward what used to be the Corvette’s trunk and raise his gun.

Colt pinched his eyes shut, fearing that the time had finally come.

Then he heard a woman’s weak voice call out from behind him. “Please, help me…”

“You sit down,” the man said. “Help is on the way.”

“Ma… gun,” the agent muttered.

He hushed her again, but then thought he understood. He slowly brought his right hand around his waist and reached across the center console to feel for the service pistol she had holstered on her right hip. His fingers probed the Kydex holster, looking for some form of retention, a lever or button that needed to be actuated, but it appeared to be held in place by friction.

“Help me,” the woman said, her voice having drifted further to Colt’s left and closer to the man pointing a gun at her.

Colt wrapped his fingers around the pistol grip and braced himself, looking through squinted eyes at the two gunmen as they chattered back and forth in what he assumed was Mandarin. The words sounded harsh and clipped, but the tone was universal. The man on the right was losing patience with the woman and wanted his partner to end it.

“Now,” the agent whispered.

Colt didn’t hesitate. He drew the pistol and brought it up over the top of the agent’s back, leaning away from her as he brought the muzzle to bear on his first target. His hand trembled and his vision wavered, but he focused on the front sight post and pulled the trigger the instant it settled on the man’s torso.

Crack!

The man staggered, and Colt squeezed the trigger a second time before shifting his aim to the other gunman, who was already raising his submachine gun.

Crack! Crack!

Colt rushed both shots, only clipping the man in the upper arm and spinning him enough to throw off his aim. The return gunfire also went wide, shattering the Corvette’s windshield and plinking into the wrecked import sedan. Colt shook his head to clear his vision, readjusted his aim, and fired again.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The man dropped hard to the pavement, the air behind him a cloud of pink mist, but Colt had been taught to keep shooting until the threat had been eliminated. He glanced over to the first man, saw him writhing in agony, and made the split-second decision to engage the Tahoe.

He couldn’t see its occupants but knew both gunmen had exited the rear seats. There was one, maybe two more men inside, and he still had over half a magazine left. He approximated head height on the driver’s side and settled his front sight post there before squeezing the trigger.

Crack! Crack!

The Tahoe’s windshield spiderwebbed and its rear tires squealed as the driver frantically reversed to escape the gunfire. Colt immediately recognized it as a tactical mistake and shifted aim to the passenger side and continued firing at the fleeing SUV.

Crack! Crack! CLICK.

The Tahoe careened around the corner in reverse, but Colt had heard the loudest sound in a gunfight, and his blood ran cold. Acting on instinct, he thumbed the magazine release and felt the empty magazine fall away and clatter to the Corvette’s floorboards. He reached around the agent’s waist and probed along her left hip, relieved to find two spare magazines. He removed one and quickly indexed it to the magazine well while keeping his eyes on the street. When it snapped into place, he sent the slide forward and chambered another round.

Back in the fight, he thought.

The agent pushed against his hand. “We need to move,” she said.

* * *

Li Hu clutched at the bullet wound high on his left shoulder, releasing it only long enough to crank the steering wheel over and reverse the SUV out of the kill zone. It had been a mistake to assume the target was unconscious after coming upon the accident, but his price would only be a nasty scar. His men would never know the price they’d paid.

“Find me a way out!” he yelled, looking over his shoulder as he angled the Tahoe to the curb so he could put it in drive and escape before the police showed up. “Huang Bo! Find me a route!”