"We smoke them out," Zubair said, calm as if it were obvious.
He moved before the words finished leaving his mouth—his rifle steady as his boot hooked one of the liquor bottles and slid it across the floor. Alexei caught it, grinned, and smashed it against the concrete.
Liquor sprayed sharp and acrid, soaking into wood and paper.
Elias dropped low, his rifle angled high toward the loft, keeping the sniper pinned. Lachlan peeled off toward the workbenches, sweeping his hand across a rack of tools until he came up with a flare canister. He cracked it one-handed, tossed it into the spreading pool of liquor, and the world lit orange.
The flame ran fast. It crawled up the table legs, across scattered cards, into the spilled liquor. The wolf preppers shouted, some ducking for cover while others trying to stamp it out.
But all in all, the panic spread quicker than the fire.
"Now," Zubair barked.
