“No shit, Sherlock,” Kimball muttered. “Hold still, dammit.”
Hawk recognized the next face that popped up as that of Vincent Kimball, the hapless leader of this band of knuckle-draggers.
Guy number one reached up, as if to help him down, then must’ve realized what a stupid idea that was, so he dropped his hands back to his sides.
“Get outta the way, dumbass.” The guy stepped aside. Kimball wrestled his fat ass over the top and hopped down. His knees buckled, too, and he landed on his ass.
“God dammit.” He heaved himself up off the ground, hiked up his waistband, and brushed the pebbles off his backside. “Hurry up,” he whispered harshly toward the gate.
Hawk shook his head.
The third man made it to the top of the gate, straddled it, and reached down to help the final guy up.
This should be good.
It was like watching the damn Three Stooges and their halfwit friend. If the situation wasn’t so serious, it would be comical.
It took several minutes, but the last two guys—one of them a good six inches taller than the others—finally made it over. They all stood with their hands on their hips, breathing heavily as they checked out the area.
“What the fuck, Vinny?” the tall guy grumbled as he tugged on his lapels and straightened his jacket. “You didn’t tell us the guy lived in a fuckin’ jungle.”
Where the hell did Kimball find these dipshits?
Not one of them had any tactical skills, and two of them appeared to be wearing suit pants with dress shoes. Kimball had a revolver in a holster on his left hip. The other three appeared to be carrying semiautomatic handguns. No rifles, no shotguns, just a single weapon each.
Did these morons really think they were just going to walk up to his house and take Charlotte from him?
A familiar black helo approached, flew low overhead, and kept going. All four men ducked slightly and watched it disappear beyond the trees.
Hawk’s teammates had arrived, and these four idiots had no idea the kind of hell that was about to rain down on them.
“Holy shit, that thing was low.” This from the first guy with the bloody nose.
“Jesus, you’d think you never saw a helicopter before.” Kimball started walking up the road. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
The others followed him. Their eyes were huge, and their heads swiveled side to side, trying to see into the woods around them.
Taking them out right now would be easy, but where was the fun in that? Instead, Hawk remained in position—silent and unseen—until they passed by him.
He tapped his earpiece twice to initiate hands-free communication.
“Four men, heading east on the access road toward the house,” he whispered.
“We spotted five heat signatures as we flew over,” Cole responded. “Four by the gate and one in the trees I assume was you.”
“Affirmative. These guys are only carrying handguns.” He told them about their foray over the gate. “And they’re coming in with the finesse of a herd of buffalo.”
“No training?” Cole asked.
“None.” Actually, they were idiots. “If you guys come in from your side and fan out, we can easily box them in.”
Taking them alive was preferrable, but if one of them even flinched in a way they didn’t like, they wouldn’t hesitate to take them out.
“Roger that.” Cole’s voice was choppy, like he was running. “Lucas is staying with the chopper and will be watching the house.” It was reassuring to know his teammate was so close to Charlotte. “Eddie, Viking, and I are on the move, ETA five minutes.”
Hawk stood and headed through the woods, maintaining a course parallel to the four men, who were talking and making no effort to hide their approach.
“What’s the deal with this boyfriend?” one of them asked.
