Free Exiled Omnibus by James Hunt Page A

come up from Mexico. Whatever land of plenty the immigrants thought they would enter didn't exist anymore, though. People were just left fighting over scraps.
     
    The Mexicans lined up their cars for cover. Every few seconds, their heads popped over the hoods like prairie dogs. Brooke took aim and fired all five shots. The thumping from the bullets tearing through metal echoed back.
     
    The smoke from the guns wafted through the air. Brent had more than fifteen armed men. From what Brooke could tell, the Mexicans had half that.
     
    Brooke leaned back against a worn wooden desk to reload. Splinters poked her through her shirt. Each bullet she dropped into the chambers rattled from the slight tremor in her hand.
     
    One of the Mexicans fired a shot that exploded the window pane next to her. She ducked, feeling the tiny slivers of wood and concrete land on her back. Brooke flicked the chamber into the revolver upon reloading. When she peered back out the window to take another shot, she saw two of the Mexicans break off from their group.
     
    “They're heading around back!” Brooke said.
     
    Brooke sprinted down the hallway. Brent was close behind. Her heart pounded in her chest. She wiped away the streaks of sweat rolling down her forehead and into her eyes.
     
    The back door burst open, and one of the Mexicans charged through. Brooke squeezed the trigger twice, and two bullets pierced the man’s chest. He hit the ground while squeezing off another shot that fired into the ceiling. The man’s partner came in next, and Brooke pulled the trigger until there was no other sound than the click of the firing pin. Both men lay stacked over each other. A growing stain of red covered each man’s shirt.
     
    Brooke kept the gun aimed at the two bodies on the floor. The muscles in her forearm tensed from the viselike grip she had on the handle. She couldn’t tear her eyes off the scene in front of her. Their faces and blood were etched in her mind.
     
    “They were going to kill us,” Brooke said.
     
    The words were said more to herself than to anyone around her. Brent came up behind her and slowly brought his hand to her arms and lowered the weapon.
     
    “It’s all right,” Brent said.
     
    Brooke stumbled backward and leaned against the wall. She looked to her left and saw Emily and John poke their heads out of a room. Both their faces were ghost white. She became aware of a slight metal clicking noise. It wasn’t until she looked down at her shaking hand that still held the pistol did she realize it was her. She loosened the grip on the revolver, and it hit the ground with a thud. She slid down the wall until she sat on the floor then covered her hands with her eyes.
     
    When she pulled her hands away, her palms had a red tinge. She reached her right index finger to her cheek. A darker shade of red covered her fingertip. It felt warm and had the stench of metallic sweat. It was the blood from her attackers.
     
    “They were going to kill us,” Brooke repeated.
     
    Brooke’s fingers wouldn't stop shaking. Her body jolted when she felt Brent's hand touch her shoulder.
     
    “C'mon. You can wash up.”

 
    ***
    Brent gave Brooke one four-ounce glass of water. She splashed her face, and streaks of light pink and red washed down the sink. The tan, battered face staring back at her in the mirror wasn’t one she recognized. She wiped the excess water off with her sleeve, which smeared sand back on her face.
     
    “We should check on your cruiser,” Brent said.
     
    “Or what's left of it,” Brooke responded.
     
    All but the passenger-side windows to the cruiser were smashed. Bullet holes peppered the driver-side doors and engine. Both rear tires were blown out. The sand around the vehicle was mixed with bits of rubber, glass, and shell casings.
     
    The cruiser was tough, but Brooke was skeptical it would run. Still, that didn't stop her from climbing into the driver’s seat and plugging her key into the