Page 87 of Possessing Eden

The first two attempts go wide, kicking up asphalt.

The third attempt, though, is a thing of beauty. The poor slob takes two shots, one in a shin bone, the other in a foot.

Crumpling to the ground, the guy falls to his knees.

The laugh that erupts from my throat is unstoppable as I shoot the stupid fuck in the balls.

Screams of obscenities erupt from the other side of the car as he falls completely down to the ground.

When I see a sweaty face, I pull the trigger again and watch it explode in a mist of bloody droplets.

So far, I’ve only seen one set of feet coming from the car, meaning I doubt they had four men. I only took out one side of their car, and that leaves me to believe I have two left to deal with.

Pulling the rest of my battered body out of my Audi, I hunch down behind a wheel well. The solid tire isn’t going to hold up to any well placed shots, but it doesn’t have to.

Reaching up, I use the pray and spray method as I turn the MP5 to the BMW’s front windows. I pull the trigger sporadically enough to lay down good suppressing fire.

I love the accuracy of this little bitch, but she’s only a nine millimeter and I need something with more punch and power.

Dropping the MP5, I pull out my Glock and slowly begin to edge my way around the side of my car.

Moving forward, I can feel my face pulling into a grimace as I see the damage I did to my poor, beautiful Audi.

Damn.

She was a good little car.

Checking the BMW, I see that the side and front airbag have been deployed and the front window has been shattered.

Ducking down the moment I see a chrome pistol aimed over the roof of the car, I cringe, hearing the high-pitched whine of bullets flying over my head.

I wonder how lucky I can be?

Crouching down to the ground again, I start shooting under the cars as fast as my Glock can go, emptying the clip in its entirety.

I must have hit someone with the last couple of shots because a man’s high-pitched bellow floats in the empty air around us.

Moving quickly to the side of their car, I stay below the window line, my hands dropping the empty mag and slapping a fresh one back in.

“Are you all dead?” I shout out to the them as I keep moving. “Or mostly dead?”

“Fuck you!” comes from behind the car in a heavily accented groan.

Hmm, definitely Russians.

Taking a peek into the car, I spot a dead driver with three bullet holes in the chest.

One left questionably alive then.

“How bad are you hurt, comrade?” I shout to him.

“Alive enough to kill you, fuckingpindo,” the man snarls in his heavily accented English back at me.

“Well, well, I haven’t been called apindoin a while,” I laugh at him.

“Do you smoke?” he asks then starts firing his pistol two feet to the left of me.

“It’s a filthy habit,” I say, “but no, I quit three years ago.”

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