[Jake's POV]
Three bullets. Six men.
In the movies, the hero always has a spare magazine hidden in an ankle holster, or a sudden burst of superhuman speed that lets him dodge automatic gunfire. But we weren't in a movie. We were in a concrete box fifty feet below a mansion full of billionaires, and the air smelled like cordite, copper, and vaporized dust.
Darius didn't look at his gun. He didn't look at me. His eyes were locked on the doorway, tracking the shifting shadows of the tactical team stacking up in the hall.
"When I move," Darius said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that barely carried over the ringing in my ears, "you go low. Take the knees. I will take the eyes."
"And the scarred guy?" I asked, wiping a smear of blood from my cheek where the bullet had grazed my shoulder.
"If he gets past me, he's yours."
