The rifle shot sent Parter running up the steps of the triple-wide before Jamal could think to fire his revolver.
“Shit,” Jamal shouted. He bolted after the big man.
He didn’t make it far. Just past the generator he felt his feet slip out from under him. He barely got his elbow down in time to break the fall.
Pain spiked up Jamal’s arm. Someone was screaming. Jamal was choking. He had landed with a splash in something cool and oily that flew up his nose and down his throat.
Gasoline. The chugging old generator was bleeding gasoline.