Chapter 23 Blended Unit
Chapter twenty-three
Blended Unit
Three minutes.
Three fucking minutes.
In the span of three goddamn minutes, while Lance was busy turning Pretty Bird’s latest offensive into fried fucking chicken, their tight and trained and should’ve-been-adequate defense became a clusterfuck.
Ultimately all because Lynn’s sense of self-preservation was about as low as the morale of a new recruit after their first day at boot.
Arguably not even the best example. Lance remembered his first day of boot with an atypical fondness.
It’d been the first time he was brow-beaten and broken to within an inch of his sanity by choice, and the first time he’d known that even though more pain loomed in the future, there actually was a greater purpose behind it.
Lance ground his teeth, rolled beneath the wild swing of some soulless bastard, and let his anger crackle in his fist as he dropped a hard punch to the guy’s improperly protected solar plexus.
His opponent’s entire body reversed course, feet flying out from under him and vomit splattering the air.
The asshole hit the ground hard on his back and spasmed twice before going still.
The worst thing about all of it was, the stupid bootcamp comparison actually forced Lance to understand. He didn’t want to understand. He wanted to be pissed.
Hell, he was pissed anyway.
Another guy attempted to rush up on his presumed blind spot, feet crunching too loudly before he abandoned the pretense of a sneak attack altogether and began spewing curses in rapid Spanish.
The thick dialect tested Lance’s fluency.
That was about the extent of the challenge.
For kicks, Lance pilfered the dumbass’s rifle. That shit was obviously wasted on him.
A twig snapped off to his right, alerting Lance to more movement.
Movement that actually hadn’t yet tripped his radar.
Lance smiled, hefted his new toy, and pivoted in place.
Making sure to speak in Spanish, since it was apparent not all of the traffickers had bothered learning English before crossing to America, he called, “You wanna die like a man or a coward?”
Two entire seconds passed in relative stillness. They weren’t far enough away from the rest of the fighting to not be able to hear it, and the continued gunfire was making Lance itch.
Then the bush ahead rustled and a man in respectable body armor stepped into view, gun still raised, moving slow.
He neither lifted his head from the scope nor curled his finger around the trigger when he spoke, in Spanish, saying, “Maybe we can work something out. You obviously have skill, and we obviously have openings. Men with skill are always welcome. You don’t shoot me, and I put in a good word for you with Pretty Bird, what do you think? He pays real well, too.”
Lance bit back his snort. He’d been insulted a lot of times in a lot of ways, but being even half-seriously pitched a recruitment spiel from a cartel that specialized in sex-trafficking was perhaps the most offensive insult of all.
He raked his eyes over the man’s attire and decided he ought to return insult for insult, if nothing else.
So, he carefully pulled his trigger hand away from the rifle he intended to keep and straightened his head.
“I happen to be unemployed,” he said, implying that he might listen.
The man across from him also lifted his head, a smirk slanting his lips. “No need to keep it that way.” He tipped his head back the way he’d come. “Let’s move away from the noise and have a polite conversation.” His eyes dropped to Lance’s weapon. “We can lower these, yeah?”
The dumb fuck had obviously missed his last show, so Lance gave a half nod.
“Yeah, sure.” He matched his opponent’s movement and lowered his weapon, holding it at his side.
When the man turned, he stepped forward.
They moved slow, both cautious enough not to close the distance like old friends, but that wouldn’t be enough to help the guy.
Lance just followed along until he could get a bit closer.
The fighting behind him—where Lynn, Jon, and the others were—was a bit quieter, muffled by more trees, and both men had shouldered their rifles in feigned neutrality when his would-be cartel recruiter faced him again.
To the guy’s credit, he had not been stupid enough to take Lance to his boss. That was kind of unfortunate.
“That was some skill you had out there,” the guy said, as if they were buddying up. “You were a soldier?”
Lance understood it was common for civilians to use the word as a catch-all.
For an ordinary civilian, he wouldn’t be rude in his response—on a good day.
The guy in front of him was neither a civilian nor ordinary, and didn’t deserve his manners.
So, he grinned. “Nah.” He thumped himself on the chest. “I’m a fuckin’ Marine. ”
The guy’s eyes widened a beat, a satisfying glimmer of discomfort crossing his face before he made a predictable effort to bury the reaction. “Cool.” He turned his head to motion deeper into the woods, in the wrong direction for where Jon had indicated their boss waited, and started to speak.
Lance didn’t bother listening, instead stretching out his raised arm and pressing the tips of his fingers into the cool, smooth surface of the metal that threaded through the dumb fuck’s body armor.
It was some kind of off-brand, cheap-ass chest plate.
Definitely not military grade. Definitely not Kevlar or any comparable police standard.
And definitely not insulated. “You know, man,” Lance said, talking over the guy’s words and ignoring the way the guy twitched bodily in response to realizing Lance was effectively touching him.
What’s the matter, asshole? Don’t like being touched without consenting first?
The guy’s eyes flicked between Lance’s lingering fingers and Lance’s face. Confusion marred his features more than fear, confirming he had not seen Lance use his power. “What are you doing?”
“I was just thinking,” Lance said, tapping one finger against the cheap metal. It’d probably bend if he curled his fist around it, even. “This doesn’t look like the greatest gear.” He waited for the asshole’s brow to furrow before continuing. “I mean, don’t you dumbasses know metal’s conductible?”
The guy opened his mouth.
Lance released the energy he’d been allowing to build in his chest, letting it pour out through his fingertips.
The metal sparked, the fabric bits caught flame, and the man attached to all of it let out a startled, agonized scream. His back arched before he managed to wrench away. His gun went flying into the bushes as he twisted blatantly, shamelessly, toward the creek. A creek he would never reach.
Lance wasn’t in the mood to be merciful or patient, so he caught hold of the electrical current still sparking through the bastard and willed it to fire again. He may as well have delivered a proper secondary blow.
The man’s body bowed, a near-silent scream ripping from his throat, and then he dropped to the forest floor. At least a dozen feet still separated him from the creek that might at best have put out the flame burning on his clothes.
Satisfied, Lance snatched up the sloppily discarded rifle to add to his collection and jogged back toward the main melee. At least that exchange seemed to have shifted tides in the short time he’d been away. And since he was otherwise out of targets, it was about to come to a swift conclusion.
There were two guys in civilian fatigues, tattoos, and bandanas, hunkered down behind a pair of sturdy trees and alternating fire at the main group.
Three more bodies in a similar state of dress were bleeding out into the dirt.
And across from them were Lance’s people, more tightly huddled together.
Alex, Foxe, and Herb were returning fire.
Jon had pulled a semi-visible, rippling wall of water down like a curtain.
It was a shielding technique that looked simple on the outside, but from the way he’d described it in the past, was a pain in the ass and required more than the usual amount of concentration.
Which also explained why there were still two gunmen standing.
Behind the shooters and the water wall, Lance could see Jenna and Lynn hovering over another figure. He presumed that figure was Billy.
Lance ground his teeth, raised his first stolen rifle, and rolled his body around the tree he’d been ducked behind. He kept the trunk at his back, lined his next target up, and squeezed the trigger. The dumbass never saw him coming.
The other guy noticed his partner in massacre-gone-wrong drop to the ground, and he seemed to recognize that the bullets that hit him came from the wrong direction.
He dropped to his haunches and jerked his weapon up to his chest, tucking tight to the tree.
Seemed he wanted to keep the tree between him and the targets he knew about while trying to identify the new threat.
Might have been a better strategy against opponents of a comparable skill level.
Lance cleared the chamber, gave his final target a few seconds to piss himself, then pumped three holes into the fucker. One in the head and two in the chest for good measure. He shouldered the gun—already emptied—and stood as the other guy hit the ground. “All clear!”
Foxe and Herb straightened first, lowering their weapons as the group’s focus shifted Lance’s way. Alex was a few seconds slower to accept the reality.
“I’m guessing we don’t need to ask if you got yours,” Alex said, one eyebrow raised.
Lance grunted. “Not unless you want an ugly bruise on that pretty face of yours.”
“Lance!” Lynnette called, her urgent tone carrying over the change in Alex’s expression.