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The way our vehicles are parked, the only place we could find coverage is in front of the cars. I have Shayne pressed firmly into the grill of ours, her head resting on the bumper. I’m praying that our bulletproofing withstands the amount of firepower it's undergoing.
“I can reach three, but the other two are impossible. I don’t have the right ammo to pierce or get through because they’ve positioned themselves behind armor shields,” Master remarks, his body vibrating with rage.
“Shields?” Kruger asks. “Explain. Do you mean medieval-like shields used by knights and shit?”
“Exactly like that but they’re thicker, heavier, and look government issued. I’d heard talk of them being available at some point in the future. They’re intended to be provided to the armed forces who’ve been placed at the front lines during war for better protection. I didn’t know they’d already been released,” Master answers with a tinge of awe in his voice.
“Where are the other two?” Powerhouse asks, his mind already mapping out a way to get to them and take them out of the equation.
Instead of verbally answering, Master hands over his rifle and points them out so he can see them and memorize their layout in the scope.
“I’ll take that one.” Powerhouse aims his finger to the west, and with an inhuman speed, dashes toward the foliage and disappears from sight.
“Fuck, he’s good,” Kruger whistles.
Geronimo does some sort of kung-fu roll and asks Master to show him where the other is stationed. Once he’s had the enemy in his sights, he lets Master know that he’s going to “Make that motherfucker his bitch.” As if my eyes are playing tricks on me, and he’s made of smoke, he vaporizes into thin air.
I see his form sprinting to the east, but it’s more like a blur, like a shadow.
Swear to fuck, I’m starting to wonder if supernatural beings are realistic and not folklore. Realistically, I know it’s their training. My men are good, but it's still unnerving the way they just disappear the way they do. It’s just unnatural. Ma always said there’s more out there than meets the eye. She was psychic in a way, but I’ve never seen anything, and I’ve seen some crazy-ass shit in my day. Which leads me to believe it's anything other than make-believe.
“We need to get the girls into the cars,” I tell Gunner. “They need to be out of the open area and out of the direct line of fire. They’re too vulnerable and those assholes’ goal is to get their hands on my woman!”
“They could get hit if we move them, Pops,” Gun defends.
All the “should haves” begin roaming through my mind.
We should have parked sideways.
We should have left them underground with the others.
We should have forced the Fitzgerald organization to come to us, no ifs ands or buts about it.
But I caved, and that’s on me.
I keep one eye on the fight surrounding me, and the other on my soon-to-be wife—my entire life.
“I’m scared, Julius,” Shayne whimpers.
“I know, baby. I know. It’ll be over soon.” I lie because I have no idea if after we take these dickheads out if others will be waiting for us down the road.
Closing my eyes, I do something that’s not normal for me, unless I’m under duress and don’t feel there’s any other chance of saving me from my enemies—I pray.
I pray for my men’s safety.
I pray that Shayne never sees the death and destruction around her.
I pray that she stays as pure and innocent in the future as she is now.
And most of all, I pray that we all live to see another day.
What feels like hours later, the spray of bullets stops, and beautiful silence greets my ears.
“Is it over?” Shayne whines.
“It’s over.” Gunner responds to her question because I was too busy being lost in my head to give her an accurate answer.
“Take me home, Julius. I just want to go home. Now. Right now.” My breathtaking woman cries in my arms, her entire body slack in my arms, a drop of adrenaline wearing on her, causing her to become fatigued.
