Full Throttle(94)
But now?
Now he had so much ahead of him. In the midst of the chaos, he could see it so clearly. A big, white wedding—if Abby would have him. And a whole passel of kids—if she’d have them. A lifetime of loving and laughing and teasing and screwing. And it was the fear of losing it all to one misplaced bullet that made him dizzy with relief when he heard the truck’s passenger-side door groan open a second before the big engine turned over with a choked growl.
Okay, on to step two…
The second AK spit forth its final bullet, and he dropped it to the muddy road at his feet. Squeezing the trigger on his M9 with focused precision—Boom! Boom! Boom!—he aimed each bullet at the trees he figured the militants were most likely to be hunkered behind. And all the while he backed toward the truck’s tailgate.
He was maybe five feet from the vehicle when he saw movement in his peripheral vision…just a second too late. He felt the gaping black hole of the Kalashnikov’s barrel focus on his head before he had a chance to position himself to return fire. And in that split second, he had time for a million regrets. Starting with him not being around to call in the weekly order to have fresh flowers put on Rosa’s grave, and ending with him never hearing Abby tell him she loved him. With a sense of sad acceptance, he braced himself for the crack of the bullet—the last thing he’d ever hear. But instead, the faint and wonderfully familiar click of a jammed weapon sounded instead.
Sonofa—
He spun in an instant, his finger tightening on his trigger, but not before the terrorist standing on the side of the road grabbed the barrel of his AK and swung the entire weapon baseball bat–style, like he was frackin’ Babe Ruth or something. A blast of white-hot pain rocketed up Steady’s arm when the metal of the machine gun met the bones of his hand. He cursed as the Beretta flew from his fingers and landed some distance away in the muck and mire. He had no time to make a grab for his Applegate-Fairbairn tactical blade before the JI culo launched himself in the air, grabbing his shoulders, and knocking them both to the ground.
His breath whooshed from his lungs on impact with the roadway, stars spinning crazily in front of his eyes when his skull bounced off the track. But he still had enough wherewithal to dodge the blow aimed for his face—motherfucker!—as he landed one of his own against the man’s ribs. The terrorist groaned but didn’t do much else. Steady didn’t exactly have a good angle. And then the two of them devolved into a writhing mass of arms and legs, both vying for position, both screaming and grunting, both trying for the knife still attached to his belt.
“Go, Yonus!” he managed to bellow as hate-filled eyes and gritted teeth filled his vision. The man reached back to try for another blow, but he caught the asshole’s flying fist right before it connected with his nose. Then…fuck! The militant managed to rip his knife from its sheath.
“Go, go, go!” he yelled as he used both hands to grab the asswipe’s wrist. He fought against the weight bearing the blade down on him, his biceps burning, his tendons popping. The tip of the knife kissed the skin of his stomach, threatening to sink into his gut. And in that moment, he knew it could go either way. “Go, Yonus! Leave me!” he roared as adrenaline fueled him to fight harder. Fight smarter. Adrenaline and love. Because if he didn’t come out the victor here, at least he’d die knowing Abby had gotten away.
That is if Yonus would just Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here!
He thought he heard Abby screaming his name as Yonus finally—gracias a Dios—did as he was told. The truck’s tires spun and kicked up mud in an earthy-smelling spray. It covered him in a cool, slick film, spattering across his face and the face of his assailant. Neither of them paid it any mind as they fought and spit and kicked. With a grunt and a heave, he managed to flip the terrorist onto his back. And for the first time, he was the one with the upper hand.
“Carlos!” This time he was certain he could hear Abby screeching through the truck’s open window, her voice thick with tears as the vehicle fishtailed down the road. “No, Yonus! Stop!”
Don’t you dare stop, Yonus, he thought as he gritted his teeth, squeezing the militant’s wrist with every ounce of strength he had, growling his fury and his fear until he could feel the man’s bones rubbing against one another. The terrorist yelped under the assault, his fingers loosening around the knife’s handle.
Steady didn’t hesitate. Wrenching the blade from the man’s grip, he spun it neatly around on the flat of his palm, curled his fingers over the hardened nylon grip, and plunged the entire stainless steel length between the militant’s ribs at an upward angle. The tip of the knife pierced through the man’s pericardial sac and sliced straight into his beating heart. He was dead in an instant. His arms falling away and landing in the muck on the roadway with a couple of muted splats.