I'm thrown backward to the ground as a round hits my chest, dead center. My lungs are squeezed empty as the impact drives my oxygen out, leaving me gasping.
My vision blurs.
I see JT slinking this way, gun first.
BAM.
Another chest shot. They hurt, and fuck, I can't breathe.
"Fuck," I gasp. "Go. Run. Please."
I hear her snarl, and then a car door open and close.
Footsteps, her breathing.
"Stay…the fuck…alive," she pants.
I have to narrow the odds.
I roll to my belly, not entirely faking a moan. Use the motion to assess how fucked I am.
Four men and JT.
Surrounded.
Guns drawn.
On my belly, I act like I'm fighting to get to my feet, acting more hurt than I am. I mean, I'm fucking hurt, and bad, but only the leg is an issue. I'll have bruises on my chest, but I'm already breathing better.
"Saxon fucking Cabot," I hear JT say, sounding cocky now that no one's shooting at him. "The great Bloody fucking Viking himself."
I drop my knife under myself and get a grip on my other Glock. Snap the closure off. Writhe, gasping dramatically. Losing blood, fucking hurts. No time.
Terra is coming. I have to end this before she gets here.
"Thought you'd fucking ambush me?" His voice is thin, reedy, nasal. Goddamned annoying. "Jean-Paul was in on it, huh? Figures. Old French sack of shit. Fucking frog fuck."
Closer.
Over me.
His Italian leather loafer, no socks, slams into my gut, lifting me off the ground, sending stars bursting behind my eyes, knocking the breath out of me.
Fucker doesn't know who he's dealing with. I was taking kicks to the gut while he was sipping juice boxes and watching fucking cartoons.
I gag, playing along.
"Get his fucking guns, Marco, you fucking useless bitch."
Hands grab my vest and haul me upright. I go limp and let him struggle with my weight, so his buddy has to help. Now I've got two of them right where I want them.
BAM-BAM.
Both of my pistols buck, the barrels pressed against their bellies, aimed outward, hopefully missing anything vital—the name of the game now is pure survival.
They fall backward and I smash their faces in with the butts, drop to my good knee and crack off another shot, a messy, sloppy one that misses my target—his knee—and catches him in the belly, full-on.
Fuck.
