Zubair drove hard through the narrow service lane that cut between two collapsed sheds, steering the Hummer where the pavement had long since given up.
Elias had spotted it first—an old maintenance road that still showed faint tire marks under the dust—and Zubair had taken the turn without a word.
The truck's frame scraped against the edge of a splintered pallet stack.
The sound cracked like dry wood in a fire, and the mast of an overturned forklift grazed the mirror, folding it inward.
He didn't slow down at all.
The ruts ahead were deep, sun-baked, and uneven, cutting through a low stretch of farmland where the soil had turned the color of rust.
The rifles mounted on the warehouse roof couldn't pivot fast enough to follow their angle, and the flatbed in the front lot was too large to make the same turn. They had seconds before the Saints regrouped, and Zubair was going to need all of them.
