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There was a grunt from outside the house, followed by a shout an instant later. Then a gunshot echoed around the valley, quickly followed by another. A group of angry voices began shouting at each other outside the house.
“What was that? What’s going on there? Is Alexandra safe?” I heard my dad pleading, his voice high-pitched with worry.
The gang leader hung up the call. “Vladimir,” he said, “check what the fuck is going on outside. Now.”
Vladimir grunted and headed to the window. The two door guards had been peering through the dirty glass, hands cupped as they jostled each other for a better view.
Two more gunshots sounded again in quick succession.
“And you two idiots! Did you not hear that fucking rifle? Are you competing to see who gets shot first?” He was screaming now, veins pulsing on his neck and spittle flying from his mouth.
I sat down on the bed, hands on my head protectively. I couldn’t help but feel a welling of emotion in my stomach, a tight knot of positive energy building. I looked up at the men in the room.
I knew it. Cruz had arrived. These men were all as good as dead.
To my disbelief, Vladimir went to the window, slapping the two morons out of the way. I don’t think he had heard what the leader had said. He poked his head out and shouted something in Russian.
“Vladimir! What the fuck are you doing? You are all fucking m…”
Blood sprayed from Vladimir’s head, and he flinched back from the window as the gunshot echoed around us. He turned to look at us. There was a gaping hole in his eye socket, the wall behind him showing straight through it. He tried to raise his arm to point at the window, only to collapse to his knees, convulsing. He fell over sideways, motionless.
Cruz
My third target had been a slippery fuck. I’d shot at him, only for him to duck the moment I squeezed the trigger to take cover behind the remains of an old wall.
Motherfucker just dodged a fucking bullet! What the fuck! Ain’t never seen no one do that shit before.
I saw the pate of his bald head sticking four or so inches above the molding brick of the wall.
I quickly reloaded and took careful aim. He didn’t manage the feat twice, the top of his skull exploding with a spray of horrid gore like I’d just shot an overripe watermelon. My confidence was restored.
Four shots.
Movement at the window caught my eye again. I turned the scope toward it, seeing two stupid Russians glaring through the dirty glass. They were saved by their own stupidity, each of them pushing one another erratically as they peered through the glass. I wasn’t wasting my last bullet on a potshot at two fucking idiots.
Then, something amazing happened. The two men were slapped aside by a hulking figure. An ugly head popped out of the window, forming a perfect target. I was almost stunned by his sheer arrogance and stupidity. I reloaded the rifle, chambering my last bullet.
I took aim at his large head. Just before I fired, I saw him shouting something, probably at the mobsters hiding here and there around the farmhouse. And then he looked straight at me, his eye fixing on the scope, narrowing.
The bullet went straight through his left eye. His head jerked back, and he dropped out of sight.
Five bullets gone. Four kills. I kissed the wooden stock of the rifle and threw it away into the undergrowth beside me. I recovered the 9mm pistol in front of me and tucked it into my boot.
I didn’t have any time to waste. I had to seize this moment of confusion, and pounce on the remaining gangsters before they were able to formulate some sort of effective defense.
I edged back from the tree I was kneeling at before rolling to my right, up on my feet in one swift movement. I ran parallel to the edge of the embankment heading for the old fence, which was to be my cover as I approached the house.
I chose the revolver as my first weapon—well made, powerful, accurate and reliable. Clicking the safety off, I ran along the right side of the fence, ducking into a crouch as I sprinted as fast as I could at such an ungainly angle.
As I got halfway to the house, I stopped my straight sprint and started a monkey run instead, shifting my weight from right to left as I ran, my steps awkward and wide. It was hard to get a decent shot off at someone who was stepping from side to side erratically as they ran; I knew it all too well.
A gunshot echoed off to my left as I was spotted. It had come from outside the house, at the corner of the left wall. I spied movement from the edge of my vision.
Seeing a relatively undamaged section of fence ahead, thick with bramble and weeds, I stopped suddenly, rolling across the hard ground into a crouch. I popped up from cover, right hand extended, left hand steadying the revolver as I rested it on the wood. I then closed my left eye and lined up my target’s chest into the iron sights. I’d covered enough distance for range to be irrelevant to my aim. My finger squeezed the trigger twice, letting the recoil subside for a split second before firing off the second shot. I was up and running as my target dropped to the floor, twitching.
Bullets sprayed well above my head as I continued my run. One of the Russians was using what sounded like an UZI to shoot at me from a downstairs window of the house. But he may as well have been shooting with his eyes closed.
I reached the end of the fence, my approach masked again by thick overgrown weeds. I heard quiet Russian voices, likely on the far side of the wall where I’d shot the bullet dodger.
