Their Property (Four Mercenaries 3)

The cover hit the side of the goon’s head with such force, its edge dug into his flesh and didn’t stop even when the bastard’s temple crashed against the wall. The hands that had nearly taken Pyro’s life went limp, and without their support, he fell over, in time to see Boar smash his fist into the next face in line.

The men who’d chased them all the way from the arena were back on track, bursting into the hallway like a hoard of zombies hungry for their flesh. There was no time to wait when freedom was only a pane of glass away.

“Don’t let the Red Bear leave the building!” screamed someone, but danger was too close to care about threats made from a distance.

The man who’d dropped first dragged himself up, about to launch himself at Pyro, but the smell of blood fueled the rage inside, and Pyro smacked him away with the cover, which had fallen within his reach.

“Now. Now,” he shouted, briefly looking at Boar, who cracked open another head, powerful and ruthless like his namesake.

Pyro went first, and when he was close enough, the drain cover flew through the air and crushed the glass, sending a web of cracks all over the window. The whole thing collapsed within the blink of an eye, and he grabbed the windowsill, pulling himself up without care for the shards digging into his fingers.

Fresh air burst into his system, flushing out the fatigue, and replaced it with renewed energy. Pyro spun around, his mouth opening to call Boar, but hope died in his heart when he saw him down, with a rifle pressed to the back of his bald head. On his hands and knees by the pile of goons they’d dealt with together, Boar stared back at him without a trace of aggression left on his handsome face, as if he’d already given up. His lips moved, but Pyro didn’t know what it was meant to communicate.

It was as if his brain had been flooded by burnt molasses. Thick and bitter, it penetrated Pyro’s skull, drowning out all his hope. He tried to think of something, a way to turn this impossible situation around, but when more men poured in and a projectile barely missed his head, so Pyro jumped.

His heart longed to fight all the guards in the fucking building and take Boar with him, but that was precisely what had gotten Boar and the others captured in the first place. No matter how much it tore him apart, he needed to flee on his own and leave his lover behind. There was no other way if he was to get him back for good.

Right now, Boar could claim he chased Pyro, that things got out of hand. If the King, who had to be the elusive Tyrone, knew they’d attempted an escape together, Boar would end up dead.

The licence plate numbers Boar told him about rolled through his head over and over as he ran so fast his legs couldn’t keep up with his brain. That was the one clue he had, and he would hold on to it to his dying breath.

The asphalt was like lava under his feet, bursting with little explosions as he slalomed between vehicles and pieces of old equipment scattered in the dusky area between the massive building and a wall topped with barbed wire, which stood out so sharply against the background of the sky Pyro could almost feel its teeth digging into his flesh.

Helplessness clutched at his throat when he rolled behind a tower of large wooden boxes, avoiding the claws and teeth of the dogs sent after him. The sight of the gate ahead made him realize his car was parked on the other side of the property, far away from here, and if he was to stand a chance at fleeing, he couldn’t stall and cry for the Subaru. He’d have to run and then steal someone’s vehicle or phone to contact the others. Boar might be flown out of here by helicopter, for all he knew, and if that happened the chances of another opportunity like this one would be too slim to count on.

If he only had a Molotov’s cocktail on him, he could have thrown it at the hunting party, run through the open gate, and called it a day. But he had no explosives, not even a melee weapon, so he decided to fuck it all and dashed forward, breathing the sharp air that smelled of projectiles and blood. His feet barely touched the ground as he dove between two vans, once again minimizing the chance of getting hit, and sped up, seeing the open gate and two guards standing in the way of his freedom.

And a truck. A black pickup.

Pyro’s brain stumbled over the possibility of the vehicle being familiar, but then he spotted broad shoulders, and a profile he saw every day.