The smell hit first—burned rubber, gasoline, and the sharp, hot stink of oil leaking from somewhere ahead.
Elias crouched beside the second truck's door, one hand flattening against the metal while he listened past the wind.
Up front, the lead vehicle crawled toward the bridge like the world hadn't emptied half its magazine at them already.
Zubair drove.
Sera leaned against the open window frame with her eyes locked on the barricade straddling the far side.
Nothing moved yet.
But that never meant nothing was there.
"Left tower," Alexei murmured through the truck's radio, voice tin-dry, clipped short. "Scope flash. They're waiting."
Elias had already seen it, the sunlight bending off a cheap lens, too quick to be a mistake. Cartel rifles didn't hide well when their owners wanted to be theatrical.
He didn't bother answering.
