“That’s rich,” Clay said. “Coming from someone in your line of work. How are you going to get back to LA with that sort of attitude, City Boy?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Grade shoot him a dirty look.
“Sometimes it’s the answer,” he said. “Doesn’t have to be today. Right, TJ?”
“Uh-huh,” Clay said. “TJ promised me he was going to shoot someone. You’re not going to blue ball me now, right, TJ?”
TJ’s chest rose and fell rapidly as his eyes darted back and forth between the two of them. Then he set his jaw and jerked the gun toward Clay. He squeezed his eyes closed as he pulled the trigger.
Shit.
“Clay!” Grade yelled as he stepped forward.
Clay threw himself to the side, into the stack of boxes. The bullet clipped the side of his head, traced a line of heat from his ear back through his hair. For asecond, it occurred to him that it might not have missed. He could be dead, stuck in the lag before the news reached his brain stem.
Blood dripped onto the back of his head, and he sucked in a quick ragged breath.
Apparently not. What the hell, then. Clay braced his elbow on the boxes, shoved himself back upright, and headed for TJ.
TJ made a guttural, panicked noise as he tried to bring the gun back into position. But the X-Bolt was a long-range rifle, and while the 21-foot rule was mostly just used to justify deadly force, four feet was too close to fend off someone with a rifle.
Even if you used it as a club.
Clay blocked the wild swing of the rifle with one forearm, a dull thud of impact as the narrow barrel smacked into muscle, and tackled TJ.
He slammed the dissident back into the rocks and, as the sand slid under their feet, wrenched the rifle out of his hands.
He tossed it to Ezra…
No.
He didn’t. They weren’t in Afghanistan and it was Grade who, just about, caught the weapon and cradled it awkwardly.
Clay shook his head. It was still ringing. That didn’t help. He grabbed a handful of—dusty camo, Kevlar straps—old Willie Nelson T-shirt and hauled TJ off the wall. The lanky man dangled from his own shirt, sleeves rucked up under his armpits and snot on his upper lip.
“You were supposed to shoot at him,” he said as he jerked his head toward Grade. “You idiot.”
He let go of TJ, who staggered as he landed back on his feet. Before he could do anything, Clay drew his fist back and coldcocked him across the jaw. TJ stumbled backward, mouth slack, and then his eyes rolled in different directions and he dropped.
“He was supposed to shoot me?” Grade said, his voice pitched up with indignation. “Why?”
Clay touched his forehead and brought his fingers away bloody. The confirmation of the injury made his brain register the dull throb of pain that bounced around his skull. That was great. He wiped his hands on his jeans.
“I don’t like being shot?” he said. It seemed like that should be self-explanatory, even if not always 100 percent true. “And it’s not like he’d have killed you, except by mistake. I just needed him to aim away from me for a second. By the way, didn’t I tell you to stay outside?”
Grade hesitated for a second—obviously still fishing for a way to stay butt-hurt—but his survival instincts won out.
“I found the van,” he said. “It’s around the back of the store, next to the shower block. I guess my phone is still in it.”
Clay wriggled a finger in his ear to try and pop the rattle of static out of his head. It didn’t work. His offended ears rang, and the memory of hot sand and dusty tents kept encroaching on the sides of reality.
It was fine; it would pass—that old refrain.
“You OK?” Grade asked. He reached up and indicated his own head. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a head injury,” Clay said. “It’s not my first. Any sign of anyone else around?”
Grade shook his head.
