Suzanne followed three steps behind Gil until he stopped when they heard it again. A pop, like someone popped a huge balloon, loud enough to echo between the buildings. Gil looked back her, a sacred grin on his face.
“Grenade,” he said, and then he was moving again, and she was rushing to keep up. They scrambled forward another block, shoulder hugging walls, and they heard more: A tapping it sound, in the distance. It grew sharper as they came forward, pounding like metal hammers, a hundred carpenters driving nails, not in turn, but in bursts then stopping, and shouting---she couldn’t hear the words.
“What is it?”
“A-K forty seven,” said Gil.
“What are they saying?”
“Don’t know. This way.” Gil found an alley that brought them close. The hammers pounded harder. They could hear glass and stone shattering, followed by men screaming, not in English, words of another language that needed no translation, strained with hatred and pain.