BANG. BANG. BANG.
Three more followed immediately, none of them aimed, all of them fired by men who heard the first shot and pulled their triggers out of pure terror.
Francis was already moving between them. He kept low and ran in short bursts.
Every muzzle flash told him where the next pair of hands was. Every shot that missed told him the angle of the shooter.
He swung his weapon.
A man raised his arm to block, but it was ripped apart on impact. What remained slipped from his control as he stumbled back into two others.
Francis stepped through the gap, driving the rusted pipe straight into the next man's sternum. Bone cracked with a wet snap, and a gout of dark blood erupted from the the victim's mouth.
His face twisted, not in defiance, but in the slack-jawed shock of a person about to cry. That pathetic, fragile expression made Francis mood better.
With a yank, he tore the pipe free, leaving the biker to collapse around the gushing wound.
