Locke
The ridges light up in a brutal, coordinated crossfire. From thirty feet above, the Grinning Skulls pour a lethal hail of lead straight down into the roofs and windshields of the trapped convoy.
The lead transport truck plows into the wrecked SUV with a crunch of bending steel, its heavy tires blowing out under the intense rifle fire as Mayhem and Cobra rake the cab with armor-piercing rounds.
The driver and passenger are dead before the vehicle even comes to a complete halt, their blood splattering the cracked windshield from the inside in dark, jagged streams.
"Get the thermite on the machinery!" Mayhem shouts over the deafening, metallic roar of gunfire. "Melt the presses!"
Down in the road, the back doors of the middle transport blow wide open, and nine Night Howlers pour o
