Page 129 of Wicked Duty
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
A sudden premonition ices his spine. Something’s wrong.
As he reaches for his weapon, theratatatatof machine guns punctures the quiet night, shattering the windshield.
He ducks while yelling at Tom. “Get down!”
No reply. A quick glance punches him in the gut. Tom’s slumped and unmoving, dark red streaming from multiple holes in his face and neck
Damnaigh sé.
Though adrenaline courses through his veins, he remains calm. This is bad, but he’s survived worse scenarios. He just needs to keep his head.
He stays low, yanking the revolver from his waist.
The moon’s a sliver, the dim stars barely cutting through the darkness.
In his current position, with no backup, he’s a sitting duck. And he’s not even sure who’s shooting at him. The people he was scheduled to meet? Or some third party who found out and took offense?
An eerie stillness settles over the night. No squealing tires. No crunch of grass or gravel beneath boots. He holds his breath, listening.
He knows they’re not gone.
Even if he could safely get into the driver’s seat, he’d need to get rid of Tom’s body before he could drive. The chances of a direct hit are high.
But these motherfuckers have another thing coming if they think he’ll just roll over.
If the bastards want a fight, they’ve got one.
Taking the risk, he switches off the interior light and lunges into the back seat, ignoring the scattered glass. He yanks theAR-15 from the nook tucked into the side panel. Then he pushes open the door, using it as cover as he ducks out of the car.
He aims into the darkness and starts firing. Screams and return fire inform him he’s hit targets. How many, he couldn’t say. He just keeps shooting and evading bullets while cries and curses ring out. Gunfire reverberates.
He shoots until he runs out of ammunition. When the AR’s empty, he tosses it back inside and aims his revolver at his unseen attackers. Waiting.
The night quiets once more.
Pain rips through him. He touches his chest, and his fingers come away wet.
He’s earned more battle scars than he could count, but this might be the end. At long last.
His knees buckle, and he hits the ground. The agony starts to fade. He’s still aware enough to realize that’s a bad sign.
His lungs struggle to suck down oxygen, as if they’re flooded with water. Blood gurgles in his throat. The sensation isn’t entirely pleasant, but it’s warm.
Darkness reaches for his mind like a hundred greedy hands.
So, this is death. After cheating it all these years, his number’s finally up.
Every king dies eventually. This is his end. His son’s new beginning.
His kid has a wife. An uncle. Close friends. He’s taught his son everything he could.
This will hit hard, but he’ll be all right.
Old Bulletproof no longer. The end of an era.
The man closes his eyes and utters his final words before surrendering to the darkness.
