Deep Sleep (Devin Gray #1)(61)

Bullets from the intersection snapped inches overhead and to his side as he emptied the rest of his magazine at the shooter who had crouched next to the sedan’s rear bumper. The man pitched forward and caught his fall with both hands, his pistol still clutched in one of them. Devin ejected the spent pistol magazine and grabbed one of the spares concealed on his left hip, his brain doing the math. Time was not on his side.

His reload was quick and flawless, but the man had his gun up and pointed in his direction before he’d thumbed the slide release and chambered a round. Devin should have reserved a few bullets and assessed his first volley. He’d made a fatal error. Gunfire exploded in his ear, the heat from repeated muzzle blasts warming the side of his face. The shooter next to the car’s bumper slammed against the street, his arms giving out beneath him as several bullets peppered his body. The business end of Marnie’s Sig Sauer suddenly appeared in Devin’s peripheral vision, its barrel smoking.

He released his pistol’s slide and scooted behind the car, bullets fired from the intersection chasing him around the bumper. Devin searched the sedan for movement, finding none at the moment.

“Any left back here?” asked Devin.

“No. I took out the driver, front passenger, and the guy that was about to shoot you,” said Marnie, reloading her pistol. “This is my last mag.”

“I thought you were a helicopter pilot,” he said.

“Marine first. Helicopter pilot second,” she said.

A burst of automatic gunfire raked the sedan. Glass blasted across the top of the trunk and rained down on their heads, the car’s metal chassis thumping from multiple bullet hits along its side. Devin risked a look around the corner of the car, drawing more automatic fire, a few bullets punching through the trunk near his head. He counted at least three attackers moving in on his side.

Marnie’s gun barked twice before she was driven back by gunfire, sparks flying off the pavement next to her. She moved toward the center of the trunk moments before the taillight exploded, spraying her with plastic shards. Devin peeked around the taillight next to him with his pistol, firing at a man who had reached a point even with the hood of the car. His bullets caught the attacker high on the left side of his torso, spinning him to face the hood. Before Devin could drill the man again, a hail of bullets pushed him back-to-back against Marnie. They were out of room and nearly out of time. He saw only one way out of this now—for one of them.

“Get ready to make a run for the back of the sedan. Stay low and focus your shots on targets to the left side of this car. You should be screened from any gunfire on the other side. Empty your gun and pick up one of theirs,” said Devin, nodding at the dead guy lying behind the SUV. “They probably have something that packs a bigger punch in the vehicle. I’ll buy you some time.”

“What does that mean?” she said, before popping up to squeeze off three quick shots.

A furious maelstrom of bullets answered her gunfire, a few skipping off the pavement underneath the car—miraculously missing their feet. The car dropped several inches, its tires flattened by the latest fusillade of supersonic projectiles.

“They’re right up next to the car,” she said. “We won’t make it.”

“I’ll draw their fire down the left side,” said Devin. “You empty your pistol at anyone you see. You’ll make it.”

“But you won’t. We stick together,” said Marnie, winking at him. “That’s the plan.”

A bullet creased his left shin, dropping his knee to the pavement. Marnie grabbed his shirt and kept him from falling forward. He raised his pistol over the trunk and fired a few blind shots, hoping to dissuade anyone creeping along the side of the car.

“I got you into this,” he said. “I’ll get you out. Get ready to run.”

“I don’t think either of us is getting out of this, but I’d rather go down trying,” she said before extending her pistol around the shattered taillight next to her and blindly emptying her magazine.

Screams erupted from her side of the car, once again answered by more gunfire than they could hope to repel with one pistol remaining between them.

“Let’s go,” she said, taking off.

Devin grabbed her wrist and yanked her back, having heard the screech of tires somewhere nearby.

“What the hell are you doing?” she said.

The volume of gunfire passing over and next to them doubled instantly, muzzle flashes appearing from the corner of the nearest building at the intersection one street behind them. More tires screeched, this time clearly coming from the intersection ahead.

“Our backup arrived,” said Devin.

He quick-peeked around the side of the car with his pistol, seeing two masked figures. Both of them fired their submachine guns over the hood at Berg’s newly arrived associates. One of them noticed him and started to swing his weapon back in Devin’s direction, but it was too late. Devin pressed the trigger twice, punching two holes in his face, before shifting aim and firing the remaining six bullets center mass—knocking the second shooter flat. A short burst of bullets fired from one of Berg’s people stitched across the guy’s torso just moments after he hit the street.

The mix of gunfire changed over the course of the next several seconds. More and more suppressed gunfire, which sounded more like hands clapping than regular gunfire—until everything went quiet. Devin started to get up.