Rafael had noticed it too.
This employer of his had an unnatural knack for dangerous situations—his instincts were dead-on every time.
He didn't know it was the fused skill at work. He just figured the guy was a natural-born fighter.
They kept moving until they reached the collapsed section Gal had mentioned.
A big chunk of wall had crumbled from rain and bad foundations, leaving a ragged hole about waist-high. They'd have to crouch to get through.
Beyond it was pitch black and the stench hit like a slap—pure shit and livestock.
Everyone clamped hands over their noses.
Either an open toilet or an animal pen.
Rafael signaled everyone to freeze. He poked his head through, listened hard, then pulled back. "No movement on the other side. There's a busted iron gate at the far end of the yard. Can't hear anything past it."
"This is our only way out," Cassius said, voice low and final. "Better than the known roadblocks."
Rafael nodded. He went first, checked the yard, then waved the rest through.
Cassius crawled second, then turned and reached back to help Gal, whose arm was still bleeding.
She hesitated half a second before grabbing his hand and letting him pull her through.
"Thanks," she whispered.
All eight of them were now in the small courtyard. The smell eased up a notch and everyone breathed a little easier.
Rafael was already moving toward the broken iron gate when Cassius felt a sudden spike of dread.
Street Vehicle Offense & Defense Instinct screamed a warning in his head.
"Down! Cover!" he barked, diving behind the nearest half-broken concrete pipe.
The others didn't ask questions—they'd seen how accurate his gut had been and hit the dirt.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunfire erupted from beyond the iron gate the exact second he shouted.
Bullets chewed into the spots where they'd been standing, sparking off bricks and scrap metal.
Ambush. Just like he'd feared.
These guys had planned for escapees trying the back routes.
Luckily their fire wasn't heavy—sounded like only two or three shooters.
Rafael and the security guys returned fire immediately. The courtyard turned into a thunderbox of echoing gunshots.
Rafael was reloading when he growled, "Fuck! They've got the exit pinned!"
Cassius stayed low behind the pipe, heart hammering, but his gun hand was rock-steady.
The new instinct skill was feeding him everything: bullet trajectories, shooter positions, even where they'd move next.
Like some grizzled street vet who'd survived a hundred gunfights.
"Left side—two guys behind that pile of old tires," he called out. "Right side—one behind the wrecked truck by the gate."
Rafael blinked, then risked a quick look. A bullet zipped past his scalp.
"How the hell do you know that?"
"Instinct!" Cassius snapped. "You and Anna suppress left. Right one's mine."
"You?" Rafael stared like he was crazy. "Cassius, this isn't a movie—"
Cassius was already moving.
He rolled low from the pipe to a stack of rusty barrels, every shift timed perfectly with the shooters' reload windows.
Gal, clutching her wound, watched him with wide blue eyes.
She saw him raise the pistol, brace it on the barrel edge—stance surprisingly textbook.
Cassius took a breath.
The fresh instincts screamed in his head:
Don't aim forever. A split-second is enough.
Lock the wrist, absorb recoil with your whole body.
That thin truck metal won't stop a round.
He squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
A grunt and the heavy thud of a body hitting dirt came from the right-side position.
One threat neutralized.
"Fuck!" the lightly wounded guard on their team cursed in shock.
Gal's favorability ticked up from 72 to 75.
Cassius didn't stop.
He ducked back the instant he fired. Bullets hammered the barrel where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.
The enemy was fast.
But he was faster.
Without even looking, he snapped off a blind shot toward the left side.
Bang!
A pained scream answered.
It didn't kill, but it hurt. Left-side fire slackened.
Rafael and Anna seized the opening and poured on suppressive fire.
Bang-bang-bang-bang!
Seconds later the courtyard fell silent.
Only distant plaza gunfire drifted on the night air.
Rafael peeked out, then muttered a string of Portuguese curses. When he turned back his face was a mix of awe and disbelief. "All three down. Two dead, one critical."
He looked at Cassius like he was staring at an alien. "Mr. Cass… what the hell were you before this?"
Cassius wiped sweat off his face. "If I said that was my first time shooting for real, would you believe me?"
"Bullshit," Rafael blurted, then saw Cassius's dead-serious expression and froze. "Wait… really?"
"Really."
Cassius stood, legs a little shaky but hiding it. "Guess I'm just gifted."
Rafael shook his head and let it drop. Everybody had secrets in a place like this—as long as you weren't the enemy.
"Check ammo, get ready to move," he ordered. "There might be car keys on those bodies outside. Look for them."
Two minutes later Anna jogged back through the gate, jingling two sets of keys. "Found two Toyotas—old but they run."
She paused. "And a motorcycle. Ducati. Looks brand new."
Gal's eyes lit up. "That's my training bike! The backup the production shipped in!"
"I'll take the bike," she said, lifting her chin even though pain made her grimace. "It'll be faster in these alleys than a car."
Rafael thought for three seconds and nodded. "Fine. Cassius rides with me. Anna, you four take the second car. Gal, you're on the Ducati."
"Once we clear this alley, no stopping—head west. There's a gas station that way, should be safer."
"Got it!"
They burst out of the courtyard.
Three bodies lay in the dirt, the coppery smell of blood mixing with gunpowder.
Cassius forced himself not to look, jumped into the white Toyota Corolla with Rafael.
The car looked older than he was.
Gal was already straddling the Ducati. The engine growled to life, low and mean in the narrow alley.
She gave Cassius a quick nod with her good hand on the bars, injured arm resting on the tank.
Three vehicles and one motorcycle roared out of the alley mouth.
The favela streets were tight as intestines, lined with endless shacks, clotheslines, and the occasional drunk sleeping in the gutter.
Headlights carved through the darkness. Cassius rode shotgun, eyes locked on the road ahead.
"Right turn up ahead!" he snapped.
Rafael yanked the wheel. Tires screamed on the wet pavement.
Almost simultaneously a pickup truck burst from the left side street, two gunmen standing in the bed with rifles.
"Pursuit!" Anna's voice crackled over the radio.
"Hang on!" Rafael floored it. The old Corolla lunged forward like a scared rabbit.
Cassius had a ridiculous thought flash through his mind: This is real-life GTA: Vice City—except the health bar is real and there's no respawn.
He rolled down the window, leaned out, and opened fire backward.
Street Vehicle Offense & Defense Instinct was fully online.
The car bounced and swerved, but his hands stayed steady as hell.
He felt the vehicle's rhythm, the relative motion of the target, the exact heartbeat when to pull the trigger.
Bang! Bang!
The pickup's windshield exploded. The driver slumped. The truck veered hard and slammed into a shack with a deafening crash.
"Another one down!" Rafael roared, half-laughing in disbelief. "Cass, were you a goddamn spec-ops guy?"
"Told you—natural talent!" Cassius dropped back inside and swapped magazines. His hands shook a little, but mostly from adrenaline.
The radio crackled with Gal's voice over the wind and engine roar: "Main road ahead! Roadblock! Two cars blocking it!"
Cassius looked forward. Two hundred meters out, two junked sedans sat sideways across the street, seven or eight shadows moving behind them.
"Can't go around—too narrow," Rafael growled.
"Then we go through," Cassius said, jaw tight. "Those cars are dead—no engines. Our three vehicles have the power. We can punch it."
He keyed the radio. "Gal, your bike's agile. Go first, draw their fire, swing wide. We'll follow right behind you."
"You want me as bait?" Gal's voice rose.
"You're fast. They won't hit you."
Cassius paused, then added quietly, "And I trust you."
Two seconds of silence.
"Fine," she answered, voice carrying a fierce little smile. "If I die, it's on you."
In the middle of a firefight, bonds formed fast—whether with Rafael, or with Gal.
There was an old saying: shared foxholes, shared guns, shared… everything.
The Ducati's engine screamed. Gal tucked low and shot forward like a black ghost, racing straight at the barricade to pull attention.
The gunmen took the bait and opened up on the motorcycle.
"Now!" Cassius shouted.
Rafael slammed the gas. The old Corolla howled and charged. Anna's car stayed glued to their bumper.
Bullets hammered the bodywork, shattered the side mirror, and spider-webbed the windshield.
Cassius gritted his teeth, leaned out again, and fired at the barricade cars' gas tanks.
Bang! Bang!
No explosion, but the loud metallic impacts made the gunmen flinch and duck.
In that split-second hesitation, all three vehicles smashed through the gap.
Metal screamed and tore. Junked sedans were shoved aside like toys. Debris flew everywhere.
Rafael's car punched clear. Anna followed. Gal had already zipped around the side.
The pursuers didn't quit.
In the rearview, at least three more vehicles were closing—one of them a heavily modded off-road truck with serious power.
"Can't shake them!" Anna reported.
Cassius stared down the street ahead, mind racing.
During prep for the movie he'd spent two full days riding these alleys with the location scouts. What was supposed to be research for camera angles had just become their lifeline.
"Left at the next intersection—into the narrow alley!" he ordered.
"That alley's too tight for cars!" Rafael protested.
"Exactly why we take it! The off-roader's too wide—it won't fit. Forces them to split or give up."
Rafael cursed but yanked the wheel.
The Corolla squeezed into an alley barely two-and-a-half meters wide. Walls scraped both side mirrors.
The pursuing off-roader slammed on the brakes at the mouth. Gunmen piled out and started chasing on foot, losing huge ground.
The two sedans tried to follow.
"Next fork—right!" Cassius kept calling directions.
The cars weaved through the maze like rats in a sewer.
Cassius navigated like a human GPS: "Left turn—straight fifty meters then right—watch the pothole ahead—"
Rafael's respect kept climbing. In this low-visibility, garbage-strewn chaos, how the hell did Cassius remember every turn?
They burst out of the alley onto a wider road. In the distance they could see the coastline and scattered lights.
No immediate pursuit.
Rafael exhaled. "We're low on gas."
"Enough to reach the abandoned factory district," Cassius said. "Once we're there we ditch the cars, go on foot through the complex, and try to link up with the production or the embassy on the far side."
"I can still run a hundred kilometers on the bike," Gal cut in.
"You handle recon," Cassius told her, "but stay in visual range."
"Copy that!"
Twenty minutes later the derelict factory zone appeared—rusty steel frames, collapsed buildings, weeds everywhere. It looked like a post-apocalyptic movie set.
The three vehicles rolled into the shadow of a half-destroyed warehouse and killed the engines.
Everyone piled out and huddled.
"Safe for now," Rafael said, scanning the area. "Good visibility, hard to sneak up on us. Anna, take two people to high ground for lookout. Everyone else—treat wounds, inventory supplies."
Gal leaned against the Ducati, face pale.
Cassius walked over. "How's the arm?"
"Not gonna kill me, but it might scar."
"Scars are a warrior's medals," he said, grabbing the first-aid kit from Rafael and handing it to her. "You want to do it yourself or need help?"
Gal stared at him for two long seconds, then smiled. "You do it. One hand makes it awkward."
Cassius crouched and carefully cut away the sleeve.
The graze wasn't deep but long. Blood had clotted and stuck to the fabric.
Luckily the new skill included basic field medicine. He cleaned the wound with practiced hands.
Gal bit her lip and stayed silent.
When he finished bandaging she said softly, "Thanks for today. Without you we might not have made it out."
The quiet of the factory didn't last long.
Cassius had just finished wrapping Gal's arm and was leaning against a broken wall catching his breath when his ears picked up something.
Engines.
Coming fast from the northeast.
"Company!" he hissed, hand already on his pistol.
Rafael and Anna reacted instantly, ducking low to peer through a gap in the factory wall.
Moonlight was dim but enough to see silhouettes.
A dozen or so people stumbling toward them, chased by bouncing headlights.
"Not the same crew," Rafael muttered. "Looks like production people."
Cassius leaned in closer.
The bald head in front caught the moonlight like a damn cue ball.
Way too recognizable.
"It's Vin," he said.
"Vin Diesel?" Rafael blinked, then recognized him too. "Paul's right behind him—and Director Lin is carrying a damn camera!"
Sure enough—Vin leading, Paul supporting an injured crew member, Justin Lin actually shouldering a portable camera rig, still filming.
The director was hardcore.
Behind them were seven or eight security guys, including Harper. The group was clearly smaller than before, everyone battered.
Two hundred meters back, two pickup trucks were closing fast. Gunmen leaned out, firing. Bullets kicked up dirt around the runners.
Cassius didn't hesitate. "We cover them. Get ready."