"Go, go, go, go, goooo!"

  We were both crawling as the assault rifles outside rattled away, blasting diner tables and booths away in a torrent of high-powered rounds.

  Of course there were more of them.

  A whole posse by the sound of things.

  They were out there, somewhere, in the dark parking lot—with rifles, no less—blasting fistfuls of bullets into the diner with reckless tenacity.

  Somewhere in the chaos, the guard that I'd beaten senseless a few minutes before picking an incredibly unwise moment to sit up in a panic just to be domed by a stray bullet from his own men that splattered his brains over the floor.

  "Good Lord Almighty!"

  I just kept crawling as fast as I could, following right behind Cassie as splinters of wood and glass showered over us. We rounded the edge of the counter, scurrying along the dirty floor like spiders in our mad scramble for the swinging doors that led into the kitchen.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "Go faster!" I screamed.

  "I'm going as fast as I can considering you shot me!"

  "You're going to get shot again if you don't hurry it up!"

  I couldn't hear what she said after that over the sound of gunfire and the blood rushing in my ears but, judging from the look she gave me, it wasn't especially friendly.

  I reached out and gave her buttocks a firm shove with the palm of my hand. She yelped and slid forward about six inches.

  It didn't help much, but it made me feel better.

  We reached the door and slithered into the kitchen on our bellies.

  The place had already been torn to shreds by the rifle fire, pots and pans littered the floor in misshapen piles of perforated metal.

  But at least we'd broken line of sight.

  "Come on! Get up!"

  I dragged Cassie to her feet, ignoring her whimpers of pain, and wrapped her arm around my shoulders. Half-carrying, half-dragging the poor thing, I hobbled through a parting hail of bullets for the rear door at the back of the kitchen.

  Not wanting to stop even to work the handle, I lowered my shoulder and, with a grunt, smashed through the heavy door and spilled into the damp gray air of an early California morning.

  "Hold in there, Cass. Just hold in there. We're almost free and clear."

  She didn't answer. Her head wobbled limply.

  I hoisted her onto my shoulder as best I could, picked a direction, and starting running. Nowhere in particular, just away—as far away as possible from the blood and the death and the stink of gunpowder.

  "We're almost there," I said again.

  I hoped I wasn't lying.