The kid started forward along the lane between the stacked containers. She saw that he was limping slightly, favoring his left leg. She rose from her combat crouch, her own left knee feeling like it was on fire. Great, two cripples. Club Gimp. She kept her pistol trained on him, her laser dot on the back of his neck. She started after him, keeping a good three meters back. Too far for him to be able to jump her before she could put a couple of rounds into him. When she reached the dropped AK, she crouched and scooped it up with her left hand, without letting her eyes or her laser sight waver from her prisoner. Quickly, before the kid could react, she shoved her Warhawk into her pocket, settled the AK against her hip. It had a laser sight, too. The assault rifle’s targeting spot replaced her pistol’s on the young Amerindian’s back. With the weight of the AK in her hands, she felt confidence flooding back into her. Her knee hurt like drek, and the wound she’d taken in her left forearm from the sniper burned and dripped blood. But with the additional firepower she thought she had a better chance of getting out of this intact.