Shots ripped through the night.
Selene hit the concrete hard, shoulder first, ducking behind a row of rusted barrels.
Rain came down in sharp sheets, blurring her vision, needling her skin.
Her chest heaved with ragged breaths.
Across the lot, Darius pressed himself beside a dead forklift, gun steady, eyes locked forward like he could see the next bullet coming.
“Two on the roof!” he shouted.
She scanned the skyline, found one scope glinting behind the old billboard and another farther west near the warehouse awning.
Snipers. Precise. Professional.
Not Hydra. Not Vincent’s men.
A Ghosts.
A round sliced past her cheek and shattered the barrel above her head. Acid water spilled down her back, burning like hell.
She hissed, rolled to her knees, and fired back three shots, sharp and
