Page 17 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

That was when I heard the crunch of boots on gravel, the slight rustling of armed men walking in formation. My head snapped up, eyes darting to the source of the sound. Diaz was ahead, and he and his crew were staring right at me. The son of a bitch was grinning, flanked by five assholes, weapons ready. I stumble-dragged myself and the unconscious man down behind the thickest tree I could find, pressing my back against the trunk, gripping my gun with a familiar resolve. I had no illusions about what was coming next. It was a standoff, and I was outnumbered and outgunned.

But I had something worth fighting for, something they couldn’t understand. I had a reason to survive this, to protect the stranger who had risked everything for Annie and to give whoever had taken her time to get away.

The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and pine. I steadied myself, readying for the fight to come. For Annie getting away to a new life, for the guy at my feet, for all the things worth protecting in this godforsaken place.

Diaz stood there, his face twisted into a sarcastic sneer, the kind that made my blood boil. He clicked his tongue in a mocking tut. “Come on, man, get out here,” he said, his voice dripping with glee.

I tightened my grip on my gun, hidden behind the tree, weighing my options. My mind raced, trying to find a way out of this mess, a way to keep both myself and the unconscious rescuer safe.

“Come on, Mitchell, or whatever your real name is, don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” Diaz continued, his tone almost conversational, as if we were discussing the weather instead of a life-or-death situation.

I knew arguing was useless. Diaz wouldn’t care about any excuses or explanations. He was someone who saw the world in black and white, and in his eyes, I’d crossed a line and betrayed the crews.

As I knelt beside the unconscious man, my mind was racing, piecing together a plan.

Diaz and his goons were expecting me to cave, to give up and come back with them. That was my in. I needed to play into their expectations, to make them think they had the upper hand until the very last second.

Hold them up. Delay.

I glanced at the guy’s gun and spare ammo. I could use that. If I could create a distraction, maybe a small commotion or noise in the distance, it could give me enough time to use both guns and fight our way out. It was risky, sure, but sitting ducks we were not.

Then, there was the terrain. I knew this area better than they thought. A few yards to the west, the ground dipped into a shallow gully, filled with thick underbrush—perfect for cover. If I could drag the guy there, under the cover of the distraction, we could disappear before Diaz’s men realized what was happening.

But what about the distraction? I had to get creative. I remembered the small mirror in my pocket, part of my standard kit. If I could angle it right, catch the first rays of the rising sun, it might flash bright enough to catch their attention. It was a long shot, but it was all I had.

I positioned the mirror, aiming the reflected light towards a spot far from us. Then, I waited for the right moment, the sun peeking above the horizon. I flicked the mirror, sending a brief, bright flash into the distance.

As expected, Diaz’s men turned towards the light, their attention diverted. That was my moment. I grabbed the unconscious man’s gun and ammo, hoisted him up, and started dragging him further toward the gully.

My heart pounded as we stumbled into the underbrush, the sounds of Diaz’s men shouting and scrambling echoing behind us. But we were already disappearing into the green, the foliage swallowing us whole.

It was a desperate plan, but it was working. I could get the man undercover at least, and for now, that was all that mattered.

Only, it wasn’t enough—the stranger slowed me down, I wasn’t fast enough, and all too fast I was surrounded. I let my burden down with as much care as I had time for, nudging his gun under his chest, then straightened.

“Diaz.”

“The fuck?” Diaz asked a hundred questions in one.

I took a slow, calculated step forward, my eyes locked on Diaz who stared at me.

“Toss your gun,” he ordered.

I threw my Sig to the ground at Diaz’s feet. Part of me wanted him to flinch—I could take down the five men and him if I had a distraction. How many bullets were in the stranger’s Glock 19? I hadn’t heard shooting, so I guessed at the minimum fifteen. Still, I would have an even better advantage if Mr. Unconscious was awake. Which was when I saw a subtle movement, the hand hidden from everyone else twitched, two fingers held up. He could take two from his angle. That left four for me.

Easy.

“Knives as well,” Diaz added, and I unbuckled the knife at my side, and the one at my ankle. This idiot would never be able to comprehend that I didn’t need a weapon to take any of them out. “Move out. And don’t even think about trying anything funny.”

I snorted a laugh. “Gangster,” I chuckled.

He stiffened and took a step closer. “Fuck you, Mitchell.”

I tipped my chin. “Fuck you first.” My mind was already racing through a dozen different plans. Then, I rolled my eyes, as if I didn’t care about Diaz at all, and he bristled as I gestured at the guy on the ground. He hesitated, which was a good sign.

One of his crew pointed at him. “You shouldn’t leave him alive, boss. Right?”

“Yeah, sure,” he gestured to a guard, “weapons on Mitchell, I’ll do it.”

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