Wooshing down the boulevard with all the armored vehicles rumbling behind him, Warshon drew in his chin, his knuckles white clutching the steering wheel, his eyes lifting at the empty street at night. 

Should those who call shots at the DEA mull it over, they could have second-guessed it all being a lure, that the Phantom Lord wouldn't make an appearance just when they arrived. 

But he also knew the men well enough to understand the temptation of rosettes and regalia. When the mirage of hope whispers its promise, men abandon the cold calculation of reality. They would convince themselves of the lies they'd been fed, provided that it was a pretty lie, such as the chance to become a hero. Such as that they could capture the most wanted Phantom Lord. 

A sneer narrowed his gaze. 

Veering around the corner, he got off the boulevard into a mews that opened out to Huron Circle close to the Central West Port. He needed them to believe that the Phantom Lord sought escape through the sea. 

Unbeknownst to them was a bunker under one of those piers he had for emergencies. 

Unbeknownst to him, however, was that the DEA didn't just want him captured. Dead or alive, they would have him captured at all costs. 

Bullets pelted like hails as he made his way to the pier. One scraped his shoulder and sent him reeling. Too risky to rush now. He glanced around. Behind him, tens and thousands of containers laid out a maze that proved neither his disadvantage nor his edge. Where he could hide could also have him hemmed in. 

A thrumming in the distance turned his eyes to the clear sky. 

Choppers. 

He snorted through gritted teeth; his hand reached into his pocket and out with the car fob. 

A roaring blaze torched the night while a deafening boom blew the car he came with to pieces. 

He needed the distraction and could only hope he had not caused casualties. Sweat rolled down his cheeks while he bore the piercing pain. Stumbling into a biding alley between containers, he edged toward the pier now blocked by one of those plying trucks. Like the diverted DEA agents, so too were the porters, who were now turning their heads to the explosion. 

Warshon calculated the time he needed to cross. 

A small figure burst out through an interstice two rows before him and flattened on his back against the container. Judging by how he surveyed the porters, Warshon conjectured his intention to get away by getting on top of the handling truck. 

Kid doesn't know they have hidden security cameras on all such vehicles connected to the alarm. Nibbling his bottom lip, he cussed under his breath. Should the sneaky runt get caught here, all the attention he had diverted would have been for nothing. He grabbed the kid just in time before he bolted out to their shared doom. His brow quirked. 

A girl? 

"Shh," he whispered, his head low, trying to calm her as she squirmed in his grip. "Bad idea if you're thinking of getting a lift." He glanced down – those big green almond eyes wide and didn't believe him. He shook his head. "Cameras in the back," he gasped, weakened by the pain and the blood loss every minute that passed on. "Qui quo pro. Help me, and I'll help you get out of here."