38
I glimpsed a couple of figures wearing yellow bandanas across the way, between a white Ford passenger van and a black Pontiac Grand Prix.
The three of us ducked behind a concrete pillar as the shots echoed through the parking garage. My ears were ringing from the deafening sounds.
I pulled my Ruger. Byrd and Shea both drew their weapons as well.
“Cover me,” Shea shouted above the din. She dashed past a couple of cars.
I stepped out from behind the column and fired a few rounds at one of the gunmen. My shots went wide and hit the van next to him, shattering a window and mirror.
He turned toward me. I ducked. Chips of concrete exploded in my face as bullets hit the pillar.
Gunshots with a different pitch punched through the air. Shea was five cars down, apparently trying to outflan
