Their Bounty (Four Mercenaries 1)

This was where Drake excelled. He wasn’t a master of human interactions, but he sure as hell knew where to cut tendons, and where to hit to cause most damage. He also held one crucial asset most people didn’t.

He was willing to throw his life on the line every single time.

If he died… that would be that. Nothing to do about it. No reason to shed tears. He’d lived a good life in those past seven years since meeting Tank, and if that was all he was given, he would leave this world without regret.

The people he fought always cared too much to make the split second decisions which could leave them in a world of pain but save their life. Drake’s death wouldn’t have been optimal for Tank, but he’d get over it. All the guys would eventually cope with the loss.

The man he’d earlier spotted a bit farther away was nowhere to be seen now, but the rain of bullets in the ravine below made it impossible to hear anyone moving nearby. Drake’s brain worked in overdrive, and the tiniest movement to his side was the signal he needed.

The man wore military clothes, with a camo mask as well, but Drake still got him in the throat. The bastard gurgled, sending a spatter of bullets Drake’s way on his dying breath. A sharp pain tore at the side of his arm, but he was fine. Just a flesh wound.

He stayed low, collecting his dagger from the body that still shook, clinging to life. Once the artery was uncorked, Drake’s adversary died after briefly becoming a fountain of blood.

Drake lowered his body when an explosion went off nearby, causing the ground to shake. He sucked in the scent of undergrowth and gathered some dirt in his hands as he watched out for any debris that might hit him. Pyro must have used his grenades, but while Drake trusted his companions’ skills, he still shifted to the edge of the hill, searching for familiar silhouettes. The air was rife with screams and bullets, but Tank and Boar were methodically moving toward their weakened opponents, ready to take them down on sight. Several bodies already lay scattered, and if the number they’d been told earlier was correct, there were only three to four people left to eliminate.

No one messed with them and lived to tell the tale.

Drake frowned when movement caught his attention on the other side of the scene, and he focused on it like a hawk about to descend on his juicy prey. His blood ran cold when he recognized the pale figure sneaking out of the van where nobody else could see him, but he remained hidden behind a bush, torn between sinking his claws into Clover, and staying to aid his friends. The shootout was almost over, and when he looked toward Tank again, he caught him putting a bullet into a fallen enemy’s head to ensure he was dead. The guys were fine.

Unaware that he was being watched, Clover dove into the trees, climbing the slope like a fox on the run from a pack of hunting dogs. When he reached the top of the ravine and took off at full speed, away from the battle fought over his sorry ass, Drake made his decision and followed.

He’d told Tank so many times that the little rat would betray them, and the moment to prove it has finally come. The boy’s sob story meant nothing to Drake, but he didn’t want Clover dead, or raped and murdered, either. But what he wanted even less was for Clover to reveal safe house locations, or run his mouth about Riggs’s death, were he captured by the police or enemies. People who traded in human lives had no conscience, or limits to their cruelty, and might want to go after their crew, even just as a don’t-fuck-with-us.

His shoes were soft, and made barely any sound when he sped to catch up with the boy. Tracking Clover in the woods was easy enough, since he wore a white T-shirt and pale jeans, and was like a beam of light among all the muted colors. Easy prey. Like a child who didn’t understand it was no longer safe.

The cool air heated up the moment Drake sucked it in, stalking behind trees, invisible to the boy who didn’t know his way around, beyond city limits. It wouldn’t be long now until the white gazelle needed a break. That was when the coyote would strike.

He couldn’t even imagine what Clover was thinking. They were in Idaho, far away from the nearest town, and he wasn’t even following the road, but heading deep into the mountains. He could get lost and eaten by a bear. He could starve to death or poison himself with some inedible berries, once hunger struck. And he was moving away from a stream of fresh water which would have kept him going, and given him a sense of direction.