Before I can so much as draw another measured breath, the mercenary commander's expression abruptly shifts from carefully curated deference to a snarling rictus of feral hatred. In the same blazing instant, his right hand blurs in an unmistakable reach for the sidearm holstered at his thigh.
"¡Traidores!" The guttural cry rips from his throat like the unsheathing of a rusty blade as his finger caresses the trigger housing with lethal intent. "¡Ustedes nunca encontrarán al Maestro! ¡Mueran!"
Pure instinct detonates through my limbic hindbrain in a white-hot supernova of adrenaline and snap-reflex training. Before that final damning syllable has even finished ringing out, I'm squeezing my own trigger in a controlled double-tap amid the concussive roar of Greg and Zander's weapons dischargi
