"Run!" Tristan shouted, gesturing to his team to get out of the window.
They needed no further orders—one of Tristan's subordinates, Cutout, already fastened a rope and began sliding toward the ground on it.
Tristan stayed at the back of the group, ready to shoot whoever else appeared.
Anyone looking from the side—like his other team members, which were waiting for the way to clear to follow Cutout—could've thought Tristan was a caring leader, who wanted to ensure the safety of his subordinates before his own.
In reality, this was only a secondary concern. The first thought in his mind was for ten million dollars in his team's backpacks!
As for his morality, Tristan found it more and more lax these days.
The first three people easily reached the ground, but Owen, who carried the wounded man, couldn't do the same easily. Owen awkwardly tried to hold the wounded man closer while holding onto the rope, but he wasn't able to get a tight enough grip.
Although only his eyes were visible through the gear, Owen looked close to giving up on the wounded man, but unwilling to do so.
He might have been just a grunt in the King Lion Gang, but one of the core tenets of the gang was to look out for each other, even if the King Lion's orders always came first.
"Get down, Owen!" Tristan ordered, noticing this. "I will get the wounded down myself."
Owen's eyes shone with relief.
"Got it, boss."
Owen grabbed the rope and went down at the same time as two more Cuatro Angulos people entered the hallway Tristan was monitoring.
Like before, Tristan shot first. However, the aim from his left hand was slightly off, and instead of hitting the target's forehead, it veered off and only grazed his skull.
The Angulos grunt screamed profanities in Spanish and stumbled back, too disoriented by the wound to immediately shoot at Tristan. The next moment, he fell next to his comrade with a more precise wound in his face.
More people were very close. Tristan holstered his weapons and went for the wounded man.
'I really should've just left him here,' he thought.
When the first person peeked out of it, Tristan shot him before the enemy could shoot first. However, the distance, the angle and the dead weight made aiming much harder, and Tristan only hit the window frame.
The enemy hid back, at least.
There were more coming, but Tristan's team was getting farther and farther away. Soon, they reached their truck and piled in. The driver, who was waiting for them all that time, started driving even before the doors of the truck closed.
As soon as Tristan pulled them together, Cutout let out a bark of laughter.
"We did it, guys! We did it! We are going to be rich!" He grabbed his respirator mask and threw it on the floor. "Fucking hell, after this mission I'm flying to Hawaii and staying there until I become dirt poor again!"
Others began taking off their masks too, showing off their grins and cheering.
"Hell yeah!"
"Why Hawaii? Think bigger! Egypt! Italy! Thailand! I want to have that exotic Thai massage!"
Tristan grinned, too. He wanted to say something inspirational, but then noticed Tomas' tense expression.
The scarred man said nothing, but that expression alone reminded Tristan that they hadn't won yet.
To win, they had to bring the prize home.
"Team... Sit down. You can celebrate later—when we actually get paid. Check on your wounds first. Is there anything that needs bandaging?"
Tristan's serious words swiftly returned the mood to a more professional one. People sat back down and began inspecting their injuries—all shallow—as much as the shaking truck allowed.
Then the driver's voice sounded in Tristan's earpiece.
"Boss, we are in trouble. There are two cars on our tail, both full of angry Mexicans. They are going to get at shooting distance soon—"
There was a gunshot, and a hole appeared in the truck's walls only ten centimeters above Tristan's head.
'Jinxed it.'