Free Marked Man by Jared Paul

ceiling. Jordan had hoped to take the next one quietly but that plan was now useless. He only had a few seconds before the other Russian came down and he would be outnumbered. Jordan leapt onto the Russian and grabbed for the Beretta, trying to force its barrel away from his face. Unfortunately the tall Russian, in addition to having surprising reflexes, spent a great deal of his waking hours in the gym. He was stronger than Jordan and as they wrestled the weapon gradually angled back towards him. Jordan heard the third Russian thundering down the stairs. He started counting down from ten, when he estimated it would be too late. Jordan wanted to bring the bowie knife up with his free hand but even a momentary loss of leverage would mean a bullet through the neck in less than a second. Desperately he tried to push back against the Russian’s strength, but it was a losing battle. All at once Jordan stopped fighting and yanked his hand the same way as the Russian was trying to go. As he had guessed, the extra momentum swung the Beretta wide of Jordan’s face just as he pulled the trigger. Before the Russian could adjust Jordan drove the bowie knife through his eye and then rolled over away from the body.
    The MR-15 clattered away from Jordan as he threw himself out of the path of a hail of bullets which struck the floor and the wall where he had been a fraction of a second earlier. One of them bit through Jordan’s black jeans and cut a streak of flesh out of his right calf.
    Screaming, Jordan threw himself into the living room, toppled over the kitchen table and hid behind it for cover. There was just barely enough light coming in from the street to see. The third Russian shot through the table. Splinters of polished oak scattered everywhere. Some of them landed in the exposed parts of Jordan’s skin. Jordan grabbed at both of his shoulder holsters and pulled the .38 and the .45 free simultaneously. He cocked the weapons and waited for an empty clicking sound. When the last Russian’s clip ran empty, Jordan tried to stand, turn and fire, but found the first part of the equation impossible. Instead Jordan rolled out from under what was left of the table and fired both handguns.
    Spitting blood, the man tripped back and braced himself against the wall. He slid down to the floor and left a dark streak of red in the wallpaper.
    Jordan decided not to wait for the next wave of them. All of his excitement at the glory of the battle was gone. Bleeding profusely, he gathered up the Russians’ guns and the duffel bag and limped out through the front door. There should have been NYPD at the scene by now.
    “Where the fuck are the police?” He wondered aloud.
    As if to answer his prayer a single unmarked car arrived, pulling into his driveway. Detective Bollier was driving. She opened the door and yelled for him to get in. It took Jordan forty seconds to hobble across the lawn and climb in. Bollier hit the gas, burned rubber, and drove out of Brooklyn as fast as the carriage could carry them.

 
    Chapter Five
    Two inches across and a half an inch deep, the cut on Jordan’s leg hurt so much that several times in the car with Detective Bollier he almost passed out. On top of that several blistering splinters from the table were digging into his skin. Over and over Jordan asked Bollier to take him to a hospital. Jaw set tight, eyes firmly focused on the road, she shook her head.
    “I’m afraid I can’t do that Mr. Ross.”
    “Why… why not?”
    It pained Bollier to hear him in that much distress but she had lost too much already letting her compassion take over the analytical part of her mind. Bollier tore her own wool jacket off and gave it to Jordan to wrap around his leg as a tourniquet.
    “Listen. I know that you’re hurting right now, but you need to listen to me like you have never listened to anyone before in your life. Is that perfectly clear?”
    Jordan whimpered, tying the jacket around the wound to stop the