There is return fire, but it is embarrassingly small. My guess is that because they weren’t expecting an attack; most of the men weren’t armed. Which means they are just hiding inside behind barriers, hoping we leave. We don’t.
When the return fire dwindles down to only two or three guys shooting back at my twenty, I call off my men and shout a deal into the air.
“We’ll cease fire if you bring me Cole Morrison.”
My words are met with silence for ten long seconds before I hear hushed arguing, and then, a few minutes later, lone footsteps. I chance a look over the crate I’m standing behind, and see one man stepping forward into the center of the warehouse. His arms are above his head.
“Announce yourself,” Gabriel yells from beside me.
The man reluctantly gives his name. “Cole Morrison.”
