FRANCIS
They were taking heavy fire from the beach. Francis was firing his forty-five, frustrated that he didn’t have his twelve gauge. He wanted to tear through every motherfucker on that beach. Shooters were rapidly disembarking from two ships, and he and his men couldn't take them out fast enough. They were outgunned and outmanned but determined to keep the men away from their family.
Jack took out three shooters that were close to making it to the pool deck, giving Francis enough time to take off his tuxedo jacket. Gianni ran far right, and Luca ran far left. The plan was to triangulate the shooters, closing them in. Some of his men took shielding and attempted to secure the beach. Unfortunately, whoever had ambushed them came prepared. They couldn't hold them off.
Francis looked out into the horizon and spotted another boat.
Fuck!
They were already struggling to keep the first batch of shooters at bay, but another boat full of men would certainly seal their doom.
They managed to hold them off, but when the other boat reached the shore, Francis felt as if he had nothing to lose. He ran toward the beach, killing every man that he could on the way. If he was going to die, his plan was to take a lot of motherfuckers with him.
Luca, Jack, Gianni, and several soldiers followed his lead and rushed the beach. Together, they took out more men than Francis thought possible. When the third boat docked, and what looked like at least sixty men hit the beach, he knew it was the end.
But the men started firing at their enemies. Francis was shocked and confused, but he kept shooting. It was only when he saw Angel Medina running up the beach, killing everyone in his path, did Francis understand what was happening. They had reinforcements.
Francis ran harder and with purpose until he got his hands on one of the shooters. He grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him into the sand. This man would be unfortunate enough to endure the rage that was created by putting Francis’ family in danger. Francis yanked his blade from the sheath on his belt and ripped into the man’s throat. He dragged the knife past the man’s sternum to his gut. Blood spattering on Francis’ face gave him a unique satisfaction. By the time Francis was done gutting the shooter, Angel, Luca, Gianni, and the rest of the men had successfully secured the beach and were looking at him as if he had gone insane.
“You gonna cook him next?” Jack chuckled.
“Maybe,” Francis grumbled, wiping the blood from his hand into his victim’s clothing.
The laughter was solemn, but it was stifled immediately by the sound of gunfire in the ballroom. Every man on the beach took off like lightning toward the resort.
