My Geek of a Fake Boyfriend Works for the CIA?

Chapter 25

*Nate’s PoV*

           The tires of my rented black SUV squealed as I shot out of the parking lot. Despite my being a seasoned agent, real-life situations never ended as well as the ones in training. Or the ones on television.

            Lives were at stake.

            My brother’s life was at stake.

            I impatiently switched on the radio. “This is agent Peters in a black SUV headed northwest; where is the warehouse gunfight located in downtown Seattle?

            “Let me find your coordinates,” some female voice said over the radio. “Perform a sharp right turn and continue down the two-way street until you reach the dead end. Take a left at the three-way stop. Warehouse should be on the left, you’ll recognize the sound of gunshots,” she said wryly.

            “Thank you, agent out,” I said curtly. I literally burned rubber as I hurried to follow her directions.

            Dylan needed me.

             A bullet smacked against my left rear window. I hunched in my seat instinctively, keeping my head low, and slammed on the brakes. S***, s***, and double s***. Man, was I lucky Boss had invested in bulletproof windows.

            I quickly scanned the grounds outside the tainted driver’s side window. The unmistakable sound of guns going off and bullets shattering glass filled my ears, oddly muted. My heartbeat thumped painfully against the confines of my sternum.

            Dylan, save Dylan.

            With a surprisingly fluid, even for myself, tuck and roll, I exited my hastily-parked vehicle in the middle of the dirt road and crept behind the car. A click of a button popped the trunk.

            Another stray bullet whizzed by and actually dinged the trunk lid.

            I swore, then counted to three and retrieved my emergency situation bag. It contained my bulletproof vest, black shades, two extra bullet canisters, a pistol, a first aid kit, binoculars, night vision goggles, flares, and an array of tools and handheld weapons.

            With practiced speed I pulled on the vest, snapped a canister in my gun, and strapped a knife in my combat boots. One in each, I’ve certainly learned that lesson the hard way.

            When I had double-checked that the coast was clear, I bent over and sprinted to the edge of the warehouse. Around the edge, my boss and some fellow comrade agents of mine had set up for the situation. They crouched behind their SUVs, snipers lying low on the ground, my Boss crouched behind the nearest tire.

            “Peters!” he yelled, summoning me over. Gunfire ceased temporarily. I seized the opportunity and bolted over, running quickly with my arms covering my head.