All of them had their weapons up and aimed. Six government-issued cannons of death bull’s-eyed on her back.
Anyone who said spec-ops guys were fearless, hearts black as stone and nerves made of steel, were either completely full of shit or dumber than dirt. Because Sam had known fear plenty of times.
That time when his unit had been sent in to take out a local Islamic State leader only to get cut off from their designated extraction site and then chased by the entire IS army for two full days. That time he’d nearly lost his head—literally—when his instincts had failed him, and he’d let an enemy combatant with an eight-inch blade sneak up on his six. And most recently, down in Colombia, when he and the rest of the Knights had been outnumbered five-to-one in a firefight that’d been chaotic and seemingly endless.
Fear was something men in his profession lived with. Livedon. It was as familiar to them as the weapons they lovingly cleaned or the scars they carried on their bodies. But nothing,nothing, had prepared him for the sheer terror of watching Hurricane Hannah running her ass off through a frigid February night with six federal agents looking to light her up.
Boom!
The fed at the front of the pack opened fire and Sam didn’t hesitate to do the same. His trigger was worn smooth by years of use. It reacted to even the slightest pressure from his gloved fingertip. And in three seconds he’d riddled the pavement in front of the agents with shots.
Two, three, four, five…
He kept count of each slug.
His magazine was a fifteen plus one. Meaning he only had sixteen shots before he’d have to reload. And in that split second between dropping the mag and slamming in a new one was when Charlie Foxtrot tended to make his appearance.
AKA, Mr. Cluster Fucked.
Six. Seven.
The group of agents scattered. Three ran for cover around the side of the building. One kissed the pavement like it was a long-lost lover. But two more simply swerved around his fire and continued their pursuit.
Drawing in a steady breath of frigid night air that was perfumed with the acrid aroma of burned nitroglycerin—modern “gunpowder” was basically sawdust soaked in nitro and coated with graphite; it was the nitro that burned hot and left a distinct smell—he sighted down his barrel and fired.
Bam!
The bark of his weapon echoed over the open expanse, a sound as familiar to him as the beat of his own heart.
Switching his aim, he went through the motions again.Bam!
His second shot wasn’t as accurate as his first. He’d missed the ground in front of the second agent and nicked the fed’s foot with his round.
Damnit.
But he satisfied himself that neither man was truly injured, and he’d managed to stop their forward momentum. Both of them lay on the ground, the uninjured one crawling toward the other who was grimacing in pain and gripping his bleeding toe.
“S-S-Sam!” Hannah cried once she’d closed the distance to him.
Shoving his sidearm into his waistband, he grabbed her under her arms. With a heave, he had her over the fence—she was just a little thing after all. Then his weapon was back in his hand as he gave her a nudge toward Pale Horse.
“Go!” he hissed.
She sprinted across the grassy expanse and hopped onto the back of the bike like a cowgirl showing off her trick riding skills.
One last look over his shoulder assured him the agents who’d ducked and covered were more interested in running to the aid of their colleagues than continuing to give chase. He re-holstered his weapon and three running steps brought him to Pale Horse and Hannah.
Her eyes were so wide they looked like they were about to swallow her face. Goose bumps peppered the exposed skin on her arms. And her poor bare feet were bright pink from the cold.
He wanted to strip off all his clothes and cover her in them. But there was no time. All he could do was throw a leg over the seat, use the heel of his biker boot to slam back the kickstand, and smash the ignition with his gloved thumb.
The instant Pale Horse roared to life, he laid on the throttle. The motorcycle’s rear tire spun, sending up caustic-smelling smoke before it gained traction and shot them forward like an arrow fired from a bow.
Hannah squealed and nearly lost her grip on him. He kept her on the bike by snaking an arm back around her waist. Which meant he had to one-hand the handlebars and wrestle the motorcycle through a tight curve in the road.
Once he was assured she wasn’t going to fall off, he let her go so he could concentrate on getting them the fuck out of Dodge. With a twist of his wrist that sent a surge of fuel to Pale Horse’s hungry engine, the big bike proceeded to eat up the pavement.
The west side of town was nearly as deserted as Goose Island. He was glad for it. It meant he could plow through red lights and speed down side streets without worrying about cross traffic or wandering pedestrians.
