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“I have to be home for dinner or Mrs. Chaka will blow my brain out.”
“What the fuck happened at the motel?” I yell.
“Oh, I hired new recruits for that mission.” He fires. Bang, bang, bang.
“Who?”
“Naughty little drug dealer boys who think they’re bad ass gangsters.” Bang, bang, bang. “Suffice to say, they’ve changed their career options.” Bang, bang, bang. “Well, the ones who walked away.” Bang.
I smile and move out, my target the café where I saw King flee. I take out a trigger-happy Russian on my right, a few Mexicans on my left, and keep moving forward, my ears ringing with the sound of bullets firing. I get to the café, kick the door open, and scan the space, dipping back behind the jamb when I’m fired at. “You’re cornered, King,” I call.
“No one fights like a trapped animal.” He laughs and fires again, taking a chunk of wood off the doorjamb.
I flinch and wait for a few moments before edging around the veranda quietly, listening for movement inside, watching. It’s hard when an all-out war is happening a few feet away.
Which would explain why I don’t see the fucker when he dives out of a window and tackles me around the waist, sending us both crashing through the wooden balustrades onto the dirt. I hit the stones with force, coughing, and King lands on his back next to me, giving me the advantage. I move fast, straddling him, and punch him repeatedly in the face, dazing him, before pulling my Glock from my jeans and wedging it in his forehead. I have not one second to consider pulling the trigger. He bucks, knocking the gun from my hand, and I fall back, coughing when I get a size-fifteen boot in my gut. “Fuck,” I wheeze, clenching it as I roll onto my back, blinking. I come face to face with the end of a machine gun.
My eyes widen as he leers down at me. “You fucked my niece.” Then he jerks, and his ear literally flies right off his head.
“Arhhhh!” he yells, clenching his temple.
I lift my head and see Danny, sarcastic fucker, blowing the end of his gun. “Welcome.”
He can fuck right off. I have saved his skin more times than I care to remember. I search the ground for my gun and spot it by a nearby rock. James kicks it over to me, dips, rises, fires, turns, fires again.
“Fucking robot,” I mutter, grabbing my gun and scrambling to my feet. I look for King. “Where the fuck is he?” I yell at no one, turning on the spot, firing a few times when necessary.
“He went toward the woods,” James yells. “But we have another problem.”
“What?” I look around and mentally count everyone off my list of men to account for. Except— “Where’s Danny?” I check the area again, searching for him, hearing the screeching of tires. Sandy’s making his getaway, and Danny’s running after the car, bellowing his threats, firing like a madman. “For fuck’s sake,” I hiss, checking around him, the woods, the road, the cabin. “I haven’t got time to save his life right now.” I aim my handgun, close one eye, and fire, shooting my best friend, taking the dumb fucker down with a bullet in his calf.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Goldie hisses, falling against her back next to me, breathless.
“I’m stopping the stupid fucker from getting himself killed.”
James joins me behind the wall, and I peek round, seeing Danny propped up against a tree holding his leg. “Luis has fled,” James says. “We have one fat King and a few stray heroes left.” One of those stray heroes moves in on Danny at the tree and gets blown away with one sharp round of Danny’s machine gun. “Goldie, go get him in the car. I’ll cover you.” She’s off, doing what she’s bid, and James fires here and there, protecting her as promised.
“Fuck my life,” Danny bellows when he sees Goldie moving in to save him.
“I’m going after King.” I get up and run to the loaded jet ski, reloading and helping myself to a few grenades. I hear James yell after me, hear Danny bellowing his threats, but I ignore them all, my focus unmoving.
Until I hear more screeching tires, way too close.
I turn.
Just as a car plows into me.
I’m thrown ten feet into the air, the sound of curses following me, and when I land, I grunt, rolling onto my back, coughing my guts up, pain searing me. Jesus. “Brad, move!” someone yells.
Move? Not fucking likely.
“Move!”
I blink, hear tires again.
“Move!”
I look above my head. See the car coming at me again. See King behind the wheel.
