Page 2 of Savage Rule

My train of thought is broken when Luca bolts toward the old man as he reaches for the door handle of the SUV. But before he can take more than two steps, the bomb I set earlier is triggered. There’s a deafening boom, and I immediately sink further into my crouch, my muscles tense as I wait for the second blast that follows. It comes fast and hard, nearly knocking me to the ground even though I was expecting it.

A second later, I’m back in position. I peer through the scope, searching for the men beyond the burning vehicle. It takes a moment, but I spot them all.

Luca scrambles up just as his larger friend emerges from the bushes to help Raimondo to his feet. They’re yelling at each other, though it’s hard to discern exactly what’s being said through the roaring of the fire.

Or maybe it’s the old man’s screams as he rolls around on the ground, completely engulfed in the flames, that drowns out their words.

Something in the pit of my stomach tightens. He might not deserve pity, most people don’t, but I can’t help it.

Just die already.

“Status?” I hear through the ear piece.

Shit. I forgot Gideon was there.

Quickly, I glance back at Luca, who is now attempting to make his way to the old man. Even though my sight is slightly distorted by the heatwave cast by the flames, I pull the trigger. Not surprisingly, I miss, and they all manage to scurry into hiding spots unscathed.

And still, the old man’s cries of agony fill my ears. Like nails on a chalkboard, they scrape against my brain and something else, something deep inside me that’s raw and sensitive, something that recoils from the sounds of his suffering.

So I end it with one clean shot to his head.

“Scar,” Gideon urges.

I don’t reply. Instead, I refocus on my targets. One is behind a tree, the other behind a vehicle. Where’s the third?

Suddenly, Luca bursts from behind a car. I follow him with the barrel of my rifle, but he’s too fast and too low to the ground to get a good aim. Then he disappears behind cover once more. I keep my sight trained in that direction, my breathing even and my finger fixed on the trigger.

There’s a tiny sound that alerts me to his precise location. In the darkest of shadows, I manage to see the glint of his gun aimed at me. I duck and roll a millisecond before he shoots and hits the spot I was just in.

It was close. Too close.Heis too close.

Lucky for me, I prefer a more intimate setting when fighting.

Just as he explodes from his hiding spot, I rush out of mine, the riffle in my hands repurposed into a ram. With all my might, and using his and my momentum for a little extra power, I jam it upwards and hit him in the face.

Before he can react, I hit him again and again, until he’s forced down onto a knee. His hand comes up protectively, and I’m fully aware of his gun dropping somewhere, leaving him disarmed. But I can’t let up to search for it, not when he’s so much bigger than I am.

So I continue with my assault. That is until he surges forward, ramming his shoulder into my belly. The wind is knocked out of me as I go flying onto my back. I can’t breathe. I can barely think. It’s out of pure instinct that I point my weapon at him. However, before I can do anything, he kicks it out of my hands.

He stands over me as he wipes the blood from his lip with his sleeve and slides a six-inch blade from his boot. “Never bring a gun to a knife fight.”

My eyes go mockingly wide as I stare at the shiny metal. “Boy, you’ve got a big one.”

He smirks. “It’s even bigger up close.”

I appreciate his cockiness and smile. “I bet. But it’s still not as big as mine.” As I say it, I slide out the nine-inch knife I keep tucked inmyboot.

While I appreciated his cockiness, I appreciate his shock even more as he stares at his own reflection in the mirror finish of my knife.

Taking advantage of his distraction, I whirl my legs in a windmill and kick his feet out from under him. He falls flat on his ass and before he can fathom what the fuck just happened, I straddle him.

I go to town, punching him the way I know will inflict the most pain from my small fist. And because he’s so busy keeping my knife out of his throat, I inflict alotof pain.

He does manage to get in one or two of his own hits, I’ll give him that. But I ignore them, too focused on my task of ending his life.

“You fucking robot,” he yells, and I have to admit the name calling kind of hurts. “Get the fuck off me!”

Somehow, he manages to fling me off. We both scramble to our feet, both of us panting, both bleeding but ready to go again.

---