Their Property (Four Mercenaries 3) - Page 38
“It’s too far. I’ve got to get down there.”
A part of him expected Tank to tell him to stay put, to take no risks, but that wasn’t what he got. “You’ve got ten bullets and the advantage of surprise. Shoot and run.”
“What’s going on there?” Drake asked, breathing hard, as if he were running.
Tank was experienced and patient. If he believed that Clover could do this, that the risk was worth taking, then maybe Clover wasn’t as helpless as he feared. He couldn’t stay in hiding forever, certainly not if his decision could mean Boar’s life or death.
Leap of faith then.
The ground felt too hard against his feet when he jumped from a high branch and pain shot up his legs, but there was no time to check whether they remained unbroken. Beyond the thatch of trees, Boar twisted away, a gun pressed to his head when he refused to board the truck as meekly as his fellow captives, and Clover knew he had no more time for hesitation. He could either ensure his own safety or see Boar taken and the goons escaping justice. He had to buy the others enough time to join him.
He dashed through the uneven landscape, slaloming between the trees until he burst through a line of bushes and saw the side of the truck. His heart counted the time remaining.
Boar fell following another punch, and as soon as Clover saw him roll into the grass, he raised his gun, his eyes the perfect scope surveying the scene for the worthiest target.
With five armed men present, it would be impossible to take them all out, so he shot the two tires within sight.
He’d expected them to burst, like they did in the movies, but the wheels merely twitched, so he shot two more holes in the front one before sinking behind a bush when a shadow moved at the edge of his vision.
A tall man wearing boxer shorts and a muscle shirt emerged from behind the vehicle. He must have been torn out of bed by the raid, but his gaze was alert enough to concern Clover. He didn’t try to hide and approach with caution, like Clover had expected him to. He straight-up shot a round of bullets at the trees, sending a wave of gunpowder smell above Clover’s head as he sank flat to the ground.
Just half a second later, with dread, he realized his lips had opened and uttered a scream. His cover had been blown, and the sense of helplessness tied him down as the man approached him with a boldness Clover hadn’t expected. Did this guy not fear his skin might burst from bullets like the tires had?
“Out. Now, or I’ll shoot you without asking questions!”
Clover lay paralyzed for a split second too long. When he looked up, the towering presence above made his heart stop.
It was over.
He rose to his knees, hands raised, but didn’t want to meet the gaze of his captor and looked past him instead. Boar was there, and when their eyes locked from afar for the briefest moment, relief flooded Clover’s heart with warmth. If he was to die, he wanted to at least see the man he loved for the last time, not stare death in the eyes for no reasons other than fear or pride.
But their connection broke when a loud bang cut through the air, and he glanced at the goon only to see blood drizzling from a hole in the middle of his head. Clover rolled away before the limp body fell face-first into the bushes.
Another armed man shot Clover’s way, missing by just a fraction of an inch, but Boar tackled him to the ground with a wild roar. The sun shone straight into Clover’s eyes, preventing him from seeing much. He scrambled in the grass with one hand still squeezing the grip of his gun. Seconds turned into minutes when he heard something approach making the ground thud as if it were an elephant about to wreak mayhem on poachers.
Bullets flew above his head, but when a black sneaker briefly passed in his line of vision, a sense of comfort settled on Clover’s shoulders like the familiar weight of Drake’s favorite hoodie slung over his shoulders on a cold evening.
Two more people dropped like logs, but there was one remaining. Clover spotted his shadow skirting behind the truck. He rose, darting forward to catch the bastard from the other side.
The man must have heard him move, because a bullet grazed the edge of the vehicle where Clover’s head might have been if he hadn’t stopped half a second earlier. The shock of it settled in, making Clover’s knees weak, but when he heard the man reload, he dared to look beyond the truck again.
The man was clad in just a pair of black jogging bottoms, revealing skin that sagged somewhat from age and lack of exercise, but his eyes were alert, and he pushed the magazine back into his firearm, about to shoot.
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