Page 48 of The Bait

Harry ducked down behind the first vehicle and this time bullets went over his head. From Asher this time. Three shots.Pop, pop, pop. Then silence.

Jesus Christ.

Harry’s heart was thundering.

He snuck to the far side of the fender. He could see now there had been another man in the first vehicle. He was now a smear on the backseat.

The three men were escaping into the trees. Harry didn’t have time to aim and fire; he couldn’t risk killing Rozga. He had to run. He had to pursue on foot. He would have no cover but the trees now, but he had no other choice.

Asher’s sight would be restricted, Harry understood. But he was the best, right?

Harry took off after them. The second lieutenant at the flank spotted him and yelled something, lifted his gun, and fired a spray of bullets at Harry.

Harry ducked behind a tree, splinters flying.Fuck, fuck fuck.

Then another shot rang out and lieutenant number two spun in slow motion, a crater where his forehead used to be.

The first lieutenant shoved Rozga behind a tree, taking cover. He yelled something in Croatian or Bosnian that Harry didn’t understand.

Didn’t care.

It was the guy with red hair. The one Daris had said could fight. The smart one, apparently. Rozga’s right-hand man. When Harry risked a quick glance to get an eval, a shot hit the tree, missing Harry by millimetres.

Fuck.

Another shot came from Asher, and Rozga cried out.

Asher had shot Rozga?

Not a kill shot, obviously. But one to change the odds and make lieutenant redhead react.

Harry broke cover, his 36 raised, and he ran toward them. He waited for the guy to make one move, to give Harry one inch of body mass. But when he made his move, stepping out, before Harry could fire one round, the guy’s head opened like a tin of spaghetti sauce.

Harry skidded to a stop. “Jesus Christ, can I kill one fucking person?” he yelled. He stomped over to where Rozga was trying to scurry away. He was clutching his shoulder, blood oozing from the ragged gash where Asher had shot him.

“Six out of twenty-two,” Harry grumbled. “That’s all I got. Twenty-seven percent strike rate. You know what that does to my average?”

Rozga shook his head, still trying to back away from Harry in the leaves and mud.

“Get to your fucking feet,” Harry said, pulling him by his shirt and shoving him in the direction they’d come. “Walk.” He began to walk, but Harry shoved him. “Faster.”

“What do you want?” Rozga asked.

“I wanted better than twenty-seven percent, that’s what I wanted. He’s never gonna let me hear the end of it.”

“I don’t understand,” he mumbled. “My arm . . .”

Harry shoved him again. “Yeah, your arm. Not your fucking leg. Move faster. Run.”

Harry knew making him run would only make him bleed faster, but he didn’t care at this point.

They broke through the trees near the convoy carnageand what was left of the cabin. “This way,” Harry said, shoving Rozga forward with the end of his rifle, but Rozga stopped when he saw Asher coming out from the trees. He had his G36 rifle and the backpack, but not his MAC 50.

He looked pissed off. Like really fucking mad. “This way,” Asher snapped. “North.”

They headed back into the forest, away from the clearing, away from the mess they’d just made, and away from the emergency services that would be no doubt arriving soon enough.

Harry couldn’t hear sirens yet, but they’d be coming.

---