Page 114 of American Hellhound
“Shit,” Roman said. “Duane’s gonnakill us.” He sounded more concerned about that than the prospect of being killed by hillbillies in the immediate future.
Ghost had two things on his side: the dark of the building, and the faint trace of light coming in through the window at his back. It helped that Justin was on the ground, and out of the line of fire. He set up a shot, let out a steadying breath, and fired.
One of the Ryders, the tallest one, went down like a sack of hammers, instant and boneless.
There was a scuffle, shouting. One of the shadows grabbed Justin by the arm and attempted to haul him up. A few shots pinged harmlessly off surrounding cabinets, way off the mark.
“I wouldn’t touch him,” Ghost called. “I got a better bead on you than you’ve got on me. I’ll drop all your asses.”
“Ghost, someone’s gonna hear the shots. The cops are gonna come,” Roman said down by his knee. Cowardly fucker.
“Not in this neighborhood they’re not,” Ghost said, for once glad to be in a shitty part of town. To the goons: “Walk out of here right now and we can pretend this never happened.”
“Nuh-uh!” one of them called back. “He promised me blood! An eye-for-an-eye, he said, like in the Bible.”
The buzzing sensation again, all down his neck and between his shoulder blades, itching, tickling like insects. “Who promised?”
“Duane Teague!” Echo of a deep, shuddering breath. “But now you…you shot…” His voice cracked. “I’ll kill all of you now!”
“Justin,” Ghost whispered. “Shit.” Louder: “Hey, hey, whoa, let’s not do that. I dunno what kinda deal you made with Duane, but you shoot us, and you’re gonna have a problem with the whole club.”
“I already do.”
Ghost could see the speaker now, he was facing him, into the shadows, shoulders squared, hands fists at his sides. Furious and featureless.
Ghost shot him.
He ducked back around behind the cabinet as a return volley erupted.
“They’re gonna kill Justin. Jesus Christ.” Ghost pressed his head back against the cool metal. Shit, shit, shit.
A thought struck. He kicked Roman hard, earning a yelp. “Did you know about this?”
“They were trying to shoot me! You think I was in on it?”
“Duane promised them blood, he said, and they’re not creative types, the Ryders.”
Around them, bullets thunked into the wood of desks, ricocheted off cabinets and concrete.
“I swear, Ghost, I didn’t know!” Roman sounded desperate.
Ghost didn’t believe him – not all the way – but he didn’t have time to hash it out now. “When they reload,” he started, and suddenly it was silent. “Go!”
They rushed them. Ghost got a running start and jumped onto a desk, across to a table, took a flying leap, aware of Roman beside him. They were quick in the dark, quicker than seemed humanly possible. Dogs coursing down the hill after a kill.
It was a stupid, impossible, reckless gambit, the kind his CO would have chewed his ass for.
But it worked.
Ghost reached the first one, and saw that it was Neil, his familiar, awkward features horror-struck. He caught him in the temple with his gun and they tumbled to the floor. He heard anoofas Roman impacted another.
He’d miscalculated, and Neil fell, but he stayed conscious.
“Fuck you!” Neil shouted, and Ghost felt a sudden heat along his side, a bright strike of pain. The bastard had a knife.
He wrenched away and brought his elbow down onto Neil’s face. Hardness of teeth, jaw, crunch of his nose.
Neil tried to buck him off and the knife pricked him again, shallow, but too near his belly.
