The interior of the van was a vortex of violence and cheap cardboard. The smell of pepperoni was being rapidly replaced by the sharp, electric stink of burning rubber and the sulfurous tang of gunpowder.
Outside, the city was a blurred streak of grey and neon as Lao K—still wearing that ridiculous, peeling mustache—wrenched the steering wheel, weaving through the morning commute like a frantic ghost.
*PING-PING-PING.*
The sound of 9mm rounds hitting the armored rear doors was rhythmic and metallic, like heavy hailstones on a tin roof with a lethal, bone-deep resonance.
Joey was buried in Xingcheng's chest, her small frame trembling so violently the vibration traveled into his own skin.
His arms were wrapped around her like iron bands, his large hand cupping the back of her head to keep her eyes shielded from the glass-shattering reality outside.
"Cheng!" she cried, her voice rising into a pitch of pure, terrified hysteria. "Why are they shooting at the pizza? Is the sauce that bad? Did the restaurant owe someone money? Tell them I'll pay! I have forty dollars in my emergency fund! Just tell them to stop!"
Xingcheng didn't flinch as a bullet found a weak spot in the outer panel, sending a spark flying through the cabin. His face was a mask of absolute, glacial fury.
The "Bob" persona hadn't just slipped; it had been incinerated.
"Close your eyes, Peppercorn," he growled, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that cut through the roar of the wind. "Do not open them. Do not look at the mirror. Do not look at me. Not until I say the word."
With his free hand, he reached into a hidden, spring-loaded compartment beneath the reinforced bench seat.
*CLICK-CLACK.*
He pulled out a matte-black, customized handgun. It wasn't a prop. The weight of it in his hand was a homecoming. Joey peeked—just a sliver—and saw the cold, lethal gleam of the barrel.
"Is that… is that a real gun?" Joey gasped, her breath catching. "Cheng, you're not a background actor. You're not a car wash intern. You're… you're one of them. You're one of the monsters!"
Xingcheng leaned over her, his shadow swallowing her completely. He pressed his forehead against hers for a fleeting, agonizing second. His eyes were black ice, but his touch was unexpectedly tender.
"I'm the man who's going to keep you breathing, Joey," he whispered, the sound vibrating against her skin. "I am the only thing standing between you and the men who want to erase you from history. That is the only truth you need to believe right now."
He pulled away and tapped the partition glass.
"K! Hard left on 4th! Give me the angle!"
The van drifted into a violent, tire-shrieking slide. Xingcheng didn't hesitate. He rolled down the armored window just three inches—enough for the barrel—and the wind howled into the cabin.
*POP-POP-POP.*
Three shots. Surgical. Mathematical. The first two found the chasing sedan's grill; the third pierced the front-left tire with the precision of a surgeon.
*BOOM.*
The sedan lurches as the tire exploded at eighty miles per hour. The rim dug into the asphalt, sending a plume of sparks into the air as the car flipped—once, twice—landing in a mangled heap in a construction ditch.
Xingcheng pulled his arm back inside and slid the window up. He didn't look back at the wreckage. He looked down at Joey, his hand trembling slightly as he reached out to touch her cheek.