My cyberear picked up the cautious footsteps of people approaching from either end of the sub-basement—the sounds of professional guards, creeping along at a careful crouch. Then gunfire erupted around me. Streaks of orange heat emerged from the rebels’ pistols as they popped up from behind the crates to shoot at the approaching guards. I heard a grunt of pain from somewhere in the direction of the guards—and then a roar of gunfire drowned it out as the Azzies shot back at us. Bullets sang a deadly song as they ricocheted off the stone walls around us or thudded heavily into the crates, striking the rockets with dull metal clinks . One of the Cristeros cried out and collapsed in a limp heap a meter away from me, blood leaking from his chest. I kept my head down and prayed—to which god I wasn’t sure—that none of the rockets would explode. If they did, I’d never know it—we’d all be incinerated or torn to pieces in a hailstorm of shrapnel before we realized we were dead.