Dane's POV:
The first shot comes from the trees.
Not from the trucks.
That's the moment my body reacts before my mind can catch up—every instinct snapping tight.
The windshield of the lead escort detonates inward, glass blooming through the cab like shrapnel, and the vehicle veers hard before slamming into the dirt.
Then everything breaks loose.
Gunfire erupts—sharp, disciplined bursts that don't sound like panic.
They sound like intention.
"These aren't Stocciani's men," I bark into comms.
The second truck punches the accelerator, engine screaming as it tries to break through the clearing.
It almost makes it.
A grenade arcs out of the dark, smooth and practiced, and detonates beneath the rear axle.
The blast lifts the truck clean off the ground. For one suspended, impossible second it hangs there—then metal shrieks as it's thrown sideways, slamming down and skidding to a stop on its side.
The ground trembles under my boots.
Six men step out of the treeline.
