The truck surged forward, engine snarling as John gunned it onto the street. The cold wind whipped through the open window as Gaz braced himself, rifle resting against the frame, sharp eyes locked onto the two vehicles tailing Soap and Cam.

"Distance closing. Seventy metres. Black SUV and a sedan," Gaz reported—years of experience kicking in.

His grip tightened on the wheel. His knuckles went white. Up ahead, Soap's vehicle weaved through the light traffic, he was pushing it hard but keeping enough control not to draw police attention.

"Gaz—tell Soap to keep right. We're comin' up left."

Gaz had already dialed.

"Johnny, take the right lane! Hold speed. Targets trailin' you. Price and I are comin' up fast."

On the other end, Soap's voice came through the radio speaker.

"Aye. I see 'em. Cam's got eyes too. Charlie's down low behind us."

"Keep her down and don't stop," John commanded, his voice was low, dangerous.

The truck roared as John swerved left, passing two slower cars, closing the distance. His eyes flicked between the road and the rifle in Gaz's hands.

"Take tires first," John ordered.

They broke into the open lane. Fifty metres now.

Gaz steadied the M110, exhaled, and fired.

CRACK.

The rear tire on the black SUV exploded, rubber peeling from the rim. It jolted hard, swerving sideways into the sedan. They watched as the sedan's driver fought to keep control—but Gaz had already chambered another round.

CRACK.

The sedan's front tire burst. Sparks flew as the rim scraped asphalt.

"They're losing speed," Gaz reported.

The SUV's driver corrected, slamming on the accelerator, now desperate.

"They're tryin' to box them in," John growled, watching the SUV push up the right side, aiming for Soap's rear bumper. He swerved into position behind the SUV.

"Gaz."

"On it."

CRACK.

Second shot.

The SUV's back window shattered. The bullet passed through and ripped into the driver's seat. It veered violently, and for a second, John and Gaz thought it was over. But the passenger—another shooter—lunged across the seat and grabbed the wheel.

"Dammit," Gaz growled, already lining up again. "I killed the driver. Move close!"

John closed the gap. Twenty metres now. As the sedan, now running on metal and sparks, tried to pull alongside the yellow jeep. Gaz fired twice more, and both rounds punched through the sedan's side panel. The driver slumped forward, and the sedan veered left—straight into a lamp post. The metal crumpled, airbags deploying.

One threat down.

But the SUV was still coming.

John hit the accelerator.

"Soap—brake hard on my signal. We'll take the lead."

"Copy," Soap replied.

"Three. Two. One—brake!"

Up ahead, Soap slammed the brakes and swerved slightly, keeping control.

John shot past them, sliding into the lead position between the yellow jeep and the remaining SUV. When Gaz leaned out the window, the rifle barked again.

CRACK.

The SUV's front tire exploded. Metal screamed against the road. The shooter behind the wheel tried to keep control, but John wasn't about to give him the chance when he swerved left, tapping the SUV's rear quarter panel. The bigger vehicle lost traction and it spun out, flipped once, then slammed roof-first into a parked delivery truck.

A cloud of dust and debris filled the air.

John eased off the accelerator, scanning the wreck.

"Gaz?"

"I see movement. Passenger only."

John grunted and focused on his next soldier.

"Soap—get outta here. RTB. Now."

"On it, sir."

And the line cut off.

"Gaz," John said sharply, pulling the truck to a stop. "We're going to chat with the one alive."

Gaz reloaded, expression hard. "Copy."

As they stepped out of the truck, John pulled out the pistol from his inside pocket of his jacket, and blade still at his pocket. He wasn't going to let it slide yet.