Free 30 Pieces of Silver by Carolyn McCray Page B

holster.
    Twelve bullets.
    The sergeant cursed his initial orders. Carrying all those non-lethals had left them vulnerable to this attack. They were prepared to take on a bunch of spear throwing, dart-blowing natives, not a veritable cadre of Special Forces soldiers.
    Firing to keep his attacker at bay ate up another five bullets. If he wasted many more staying alive, he wouldn’t have enough to save his life. As the smoke stung his eyes and choked his throat, he realized his mistake. After the initial skirmish, he had tried to go at these guys head-to-head.
    Fuck that. He needed to go back to his low-tech roots.
    Using the last of his bullets to ensure his route, the sergeant threw the gun away as he dove into the burning husk of a biplane. Brandt found what he needed quickly, then rolled out the other side. Despite the blistering heat, he crouched under the plane. At least one of those bastards was tracking him. Brandt would not underestimate them or their equipment again.
    When his tracker revealed himself, Brandt pretended to be surprised and narrowly missed being shot as a consequence, but he needed the man to feel confident enough to close the distance. Without any return fire from Brandt, the attacker became bolder as he circled the plane.
    Listening only for the man’s footfalls, Brandt bundled his muscles until they shook in anticipation. Another step and the sergeant launched up and threw the small fire ax in his hand. The man’s face was barely able to register shock before the blade sank into his skull. Without a sound, his assailant pitched backward and hit the ground.
    Scrambling over, Brandt grabbed the man’s gun and went to check the gun’s clip, but it wouldn’t budge. The sergeant hit the release again, but nothing. Was it jammed? Could he have somehow taken down the only terrorist with a jammed gun? Then Brandt realized his mistake.
    Shit. It wasn’t jammed. It was locked.
    And it was heavier than it should have been.
    He chucked the thing into the plane before it exploded. Again he got knocked on his ass.
    What had he just said? He wouldn’t underestimate their enemy or their equipment. Yet what had he just done?
    Weaponless again, he turned to find the last gunman staring at him. The man removed his face mask as a smile spread across his face. Circular tattoos wrapped around the assailant’s already dark eyes, forming a knot of some sort.
    “ And they said you might be difficult to take down,” the man sneered with a slight accent Brandt couldn’t place.
    Maybe, just maybe, if he could keep the guy talking long enough, Lopez or Svengurd would find them. Of course, with fire licking up to the rafters and the smoke burning his nose hair, that wasn’t very likely.
    Brandt gritted his teeth. “Do you have orders to take me alive?”
    The smile broadened considerably. “No.”
    To prove his point, the assailant raised his weapon as something appeared in front of Brandt. He blinked once. It had to be a subconscious wish brought to life. Somehow a sniper rifle was floating before him. He didn’t question his luck as he grabbed the gun and fired in a single motion. He hit the assailant in the shoulder. This close, Brandt could see the blood splatter. He fired again into the left knee. With a scream, the man dropped to the ground.
    Once certain that the man wasn’t getting up again, Brandt chanced to discover where his luck had come from. Tied to the rifle’s sight was a thick chain. A pulley chain. He followed the metal up to see a figure high in the murky rafters.
    “ Davidson!”
    “ I think he would have shot the guy himself!” It was a female voice. Monroe. “Meet you outside!” the doctor yelled as the chain snaked its way back up into the rafters.
    Feeling pretty damned good, Brandt turned his attention back to his captive. He put a boot into the fucker’s splintered shoulder. To the guy’s credit, he locked his jaw against the pain.
    “ Who sent you?” Brandt asked. His