Chapter 1 #2
Closing in on both sides, quickly boxing in Quinn.
He fired off a shot in each direction, sent the men scrambling for cover, then rolled down the short embankment into the creek.
He got his feet beneath him, hauled ass through the bramble and onto a suggestion of a trail that followed the ridge line.
Boots pounded the dirt behind him, bullets whizzing past his head, clipping branches and leaves. He stayed low, using the shadows to mask his movement, praying the path hadn’t washed away in the recent thunderstorms.
The trail branched off, a couple of forks winding back in the other direction.
He stayed right, gaining a bit of ground as the track opened up onto a narrow bench, the mountain rising beyond the sharp decline.
He sprinted toward the path disappearing into the timber at the far end, when the guy he’d hit in the shoulder charged out of the forest, mouth twisted into a snarl.
He must have blown through all his rounds, his AR-15 looped across his back.
Quinn planted his left foot, avoided the head-on attack as he dodged right, shoving the guy as he tried to skid to a halt.
The move bought Quinn a few moments to snag the bear spray off his pack — aim it at the asshole’s face — why waste bullets on a guy who was obviously tripped out on something.
Especially when Quinn had a bad feeling he’d run out long before he got back to his truck.
The wind whipped past, carrying the pepper spray directly across the man’s face. He shouted, clawing at his eyes, as Quinn darted in, caught the guy with a few strong strikes.
Blood splattered across the ground, the man’s nose bleeding like a faucet, the lower half bent at an unnatural angle.
He stumbled back, skin already burning into red, when two more assholes barreled into the clearing, weapons at the ready.
Quinn evaded the first line of fire, positioning their teammate between him and their sightline as he raised his rifle, catching the closest guy in the neck, quickly cycling the next round, taking the other target out with a round to the head.
A red mist fanned out behind the guy before he dropped, looking as if he might stay down.
The jerk with the broken nose rallied, one arm hanging at an odd angle, his other hand brandishing a knife. “I’m gonna gut you, pig.”
The guy lunged, swinging the blade in clean, long arcs, nearly catching Quinn in the arm before he reeled back, kept a bit of distance between them. Too close to use his rifle, but far enough he wouldn’t get sliced.
They danced around each other, the blade glancing off the barrel when Quinn used it to shield his face, knock the bastard’s arm away. He parried a strike with the butt, moving with the guy when he managed to grab ahold of the stock, lunge in close.
Dropping his weight, Quinn hit the ground as he rolled, tossing the guy over his shoulders. The creep landed on the edge, most of his body hanging off the side. He had a moment of uncertainty, boots kicking at air, his fingers trying to bore into the ground before he slipped over, vanishing.
Quinn scrambled to his feet, checked the clearing, then peered over the cliff. Twenty feet of open sky, then a smooth, granite shelf that descended into a dense thicket. What likely would have killed Quinn if he’d gone over.
But that guy twitched, looked as if he could simply claw his way back up as he pushed to his feet, staring up the face.
What the hell was this guy on?
Not that he had any time to mull it over.
More twigs broke behind him, as boots pounded the gravel and mud.
He fired off a couple cover rounds, hauling ass to the far trail and booking it along the winding path.
He vaulted downed logs, scrambling up a recent scree slide, half-falling, half-sliding down the other side before picking up more speed.
Two rounds left.
The rifle felt too light as he took the next left, the old mining spur half a klick away. Deep shadows lined the path, only a hint of daylight still brightening the sky beyond the hills. A few crows cawed overhead and what sounded like coyotes yipping in the distance.
The hairs on his neck prickled, that eerie sensation of being watched slithering down his spine. He dodged left, ducked in behind a massive cedar as rounds pelted the trunk, a couple carving a groove through the bark before landing in another tree behind him.
Quinn worked out the trajectory in his head, readied his rifle, then popped out, zeroing in on the creep sniping his location before firing a shot.
It missed by an inch when the guy shifted, returning his own trigger pull.
The bullets ate through the bramble beside the tree, kicking up more mud and needles before Quinn slid out again, caught the guy high in the leg, then raced down the path as the man dropped, scrambling to his feet a few seconds later, his gunfire following Quinn’s footsteps.
Quinn picked up speed, praying there wasn’t a full squad waiting by his Chevy as he punched onto the gravel road, arms pumping, tiny stones spraying out behind him.
He reached his truck, slid across the hood Bo Duke style, falling into a crouch behind the front wheel just as someone unleashed a full-frontal attack.
Bullets pelted the other side of his truck, air hissing out the tires as they popped, the entire vehicle lowering a few inches. Steam pissed out the front grill, only the sheer thickness of the chassis keeping him from getting shredded.
A quick pull on the handle, and he had the door unlocked and open, a box of ammo dumped onto the floorboards.
Two more mags.
He cursed, silently promising that next time, he’d pack enough rounds for a small invasion. ?If he lived that long. He shoved the extra mag in his pocket then took a couple seconds to discard the empty one and reload. He was ready to go down fighting.
He shuffled toward the back. No vest. No endless firepower, just his SAR backpack and a bad attitude.
Brea’s Jeep sat twenty feet away, no obvious damage. Though, once he made a play for it…
He glanced down the ravine behind him. Nothing but tangled deadfall and endless bramble. The kind of sheer slope that would likely chew him up before he landed at the bottom a good fifty feet below.
But broken beat dead.
He waited for a lull, firing off several rounds, the casings clicking against the stones before he turned, and made peace with battling gravity.
An engine revved nearby, a massive black truck skidding around the far corner as it crested the rise, mud and stones spraying out behind it.
It roared toward him before fishtailing across the road, the front door opening while the machine still slid through a quarter spin.
Some chick in similar tactical gear jumped out, rolling across the gravel before surging to her feet, a steady line of suppressive fire stitching through the trees.
She went through a full mag, grabbed a canister off her vest and tossed it toward the trail.
It bounced across the gravel, spinning to a halt before erupting in a blast of blinding white light and an ear-piercing wail.
Quinn crouched behind the wheel, covering his ears in the hopes of lessening the effects, but the damn flash bang still rattled through his skull, sliding the scenery left and right.
He palmed his head, trying to shake it off as the woman dove in beside him, dark hair swishing across her shoulders from the pony at the back.
She swept her gaze the length of him, finally lifting her goggles as she lowered her neck gaiter.
Dead.
He had to be dead. No other explanation for the set of stunning blue eyes staring down at him. The ones he’d thought he’d buried three months ago.
She sighed, extending a gloved hand through the smoke. “I know, I’m dead. Now, get in the damn truck before they blow us both off this mountain.”