Page 16 of Rusty's Command

Blood streaked the crumbling rim where she’d fallen. Her story about the body in the tarp came back. The detailed description of the killers’ tattoos, their heights and builds. It was too specific to be bullshit, but he’d dismissed her anyway, triggered by his old wounds.

Guilt burned the acid in his gut. He’d been wrong. Dead wrong. And now Sienna was paying for it.

Damn fool. Should’ve believed her. Should have called for fucking backup earlier.

He pulled his phone and typed a message:Under fire. Lava tubes N of Makapu’u. 3 shooters. Track phone.

Send.

Error.

Retry.

Error.

Fuck!

A bullet ricocheted off the lava ahead, showering volcanic grit into the air.

Pickle yipped and skittered sideways. “Come here, boy.” He tried to reach the crazy mutt, but Pickle dodged his hand.

A barrage of bullets thundered behind him. Rusty counted their rounds, mapped trajectories. Seven shots from the left, five right. Semi-auto fire, probably 9mm. They were still fucking hopeless. Maybe they were dumb kids and not Yakuza. If they were kids, then he’d got fucking lucky.

Maybe they were laying cover fire, making a move. He rolled onto his back, weapon steady in a two-hand grip, waiting for movement. His pulse hammered but his hands stayed combat-calm. His mind entered that place where time slowed and instinct took over.

The man on the flank broke cover from behind the fallen tree and was silhouetted against the sky as he sprinted to a mound. Amateur mistake.

Rusty aimed and squeezed the trigger. The bastard was fast, but Rusty mowed him down with three bullets. Hip, gut, and throat. Not clean, but effective.

A howl of rage burst across the distance followed by a barrage of wild bullets.

Somebody’s pissed. Good.That’ll teach them for messing with me. Dumb fucks.

A shadow detached from the buckled lava.

Son of a bitch!

Rusty had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. The first flanker was bait. The real threat had used the distraction to close the distance.

He only had four bullets left and no spare mag. The second flanker would have an angle on him in under two minutes. Time to extract.

His finger tightened on the trigger, but incoming rounds forced him to stay down. Any other day, he would have stayed and made them pay, but Sienna was down there bleeding, and the dogs were his responsibility. Rolling onto his stomach, he studied the darkness below. The angle was bad, the depth uncertain, but he had no other way to get down there.

The tube offered cover from the bullets, but it was also a potential death trap.

Staying up there was a definite one.

But how the hell do I get down there?

Pickle pressed against him, shivering but alive, and flaring those big black, trusting eyes that didn’t deserve what Rusty was about to do.

“Sorry, boy.” He seized the dog’s scruff and before his conscience could protest, he dropped him into the void. Pickle released a startled yelp, then a thumping impact on Sienna’s back, followed by something better than silence—a human cry of pain.

“She’s alive.” The words came out like a prayer. “Thank God.”

He tested the edge of the hole with his fist; it was solid enough to withstand his weight and Soda’s. Hopefully.

“Soda, down. Come.” The command came out combat-sharp, and Soda belly-crawled forward, all soldier.

---