Page 102 of Ground Truth

The grenade exploded, sending dirt and gravel everywhere. He felt two small stones slice his cheek. Blood trickled into his mouth.

He glanced toward Drake, who hadn’t moved. Dust and stones covered Drake’s still body.

Flint’s vision blurred and his ears rang, but he couldn’t stop. Quitting now meant certain death for him and Drake.

Drake had pulled Flint from too many tough circumstances. Flint couldn’t give up. Not when Drake couldn’t defend himself.

He might lose, but he’d go down fighting.

How many of the guards were still alive? Impossible to say for sure.

Flint rolled onto his side and peered under the sedan through the dust.

He counted six booted feet headed his way.

They split up, two headed toward the back of the sedan and one rounding the front. They made no attempt to seek cover.

Perhaps they thought the grenade had done its job. They were coming to confirm the kill.

They might be wearing full body armor beneath their uniforms.

More likely, they’d be wearing only partial armor. They probably didn’t think Flint and Drake presented a serious threat, given their two previous engagements today when Flint and Drake had barely managed to stay alive.

And partial body armor was vulnerable. Flint knew the failure points.

He bent at the waist and swept both pistols around toward the sedan’s trunk. When the two men rounded the vehicle, Flint was crouched low, pistols ready.

He shot the first man in the face with two bullets.

The second man raised his gun to return fire, but Flint fired first.

Flint swept around to confront the last of the armed guards rounding the front of the sedan. The shooter had his weapon leveled and Flint in his sights, ready to take the final shot.

Just then, the helicopter arrived overhead, rotor blades beating the air, pushing a gusty windstorm. The shooter looked up, distracted, taking his eye off Flint.

Which was all the time Flint needed.

He fired off three rounds. One bullet hit the shooter in the neck. Blood spurted from his wound. He dropped his weapon and slapped both hands over the flowing blood streaming between his fingers and down the front of his body.

The helo landed. Two paramedics jumped out with a gurney, keeping low under the rotor wash. One man ran to the wounded shooter. The other ran toward Drake.

Flint’s quick gymnastics during the firefight had increased his dizziness and nausea to undeniable levels. He stumbled and fell. As soon as his ass hit the ground, he leaned over and began to retch.

They put Drake on the gurney and wheeled him to the helo. One of the paramedics came back for Flint.

“Can you walk?” he yelled over the noise of the helo, offering Flint a hand up. “We don’t have another gurney.”

“Yeah,” Flint said, managing to pull himself up on shaky legs. He pointed to the last guard. “What about that guy?”

“He didn’t make it.”

“Grab my stuff from the trunk of the sedan. We’ve got evidence in there. Can’t leave it behind,” he shouted.

The paramedic replied, “Will do.”

Flint walked on his own to the helo.

The paramedic returned with the contents of the trunk. He held up the armful. “This all of it?”

---