Then the front doors flew open and three men piled out, all moving in a rush. Water rolled out with them, gliding down the front steps and soaking their shoes and ankles, all the way up to the hems of their pants. Cursing and agitated tones of accusation and general frustration filled the air, every word in rapid-fire Spanish.
One of the men was thinner than the rest, with grayer hair and dark rimmed glasses that sat low on his nose. He looked older than the others by several years. And he looked exhausted.
The youngest of the three wore two visible weapons strapped to his body and was covered in tattoos everywhere he wasn’t covered in clothing. He was also the one doing the loudest, angriest shouting as the water sloshed over his Doc Martens.
Keeping in-between the other two was a middle-aged, grim-faced man with slicked hair and nicer clothes. His polished loafers were a bit too shiny as they scurried down the steps and in the direction of the garage. He had no visible weapon, but held himself with the posture of a man of self-importance.
Lance didn’t need to be told to know which one was their main target.
“Keep eyes on,” Jon whispered before twisting around to emerge from the other side of the tree.
Lance lowered his eye to the scope and watched the scene unfold with an almost numb focus.
“Going somewhere,Q?” Jon called as he marched up to the men. His rifle was already up, so when the younger guy reached for the handgun at his side, Jon only gave a short shake of his head.
All three flood victims came to a stop. The older male stood slightly off to the side, as if he didn’t know his position in such a situation. The one Lance presumed to be Pretty Bird raised his chin. “Are you so threatened by me that you invade my home with automatic weapons?”
A scoff built in Lance’s throat.
“If this was only about you making unwanted advances on my fiancée,” Jon said, “I’d dress you down on a public street until you were two inches tall and all of Leeland County knew it.”
Lance watched as Jon’s declaration made the other man’s face contort in a sneer. They were on the precipice. Man-child was seconds away from pulling his trigger.
“The confidence you American soldiers carry is truly absurd,” Pretty Bird said. He made a small gesture he surely didn’t think Jon could see. One his forward gunman wouldn’t miss.
The guy with the Glock made to adjust his weapon, brow dipping with recognizable determination.
Lance curled his finger around the trigger, exhaled, and squeezed.
The guy’s body jerked backward at a slight angle, blood spraying the air before he collapsed in a heap on the ground. He was crumbled partially against the side of the building and the stagnant floodwater quickly stained red.
The older male cried out and stumbled back, eyes wide.
Pretty Bird glared down at his deceased tool, then out at Jon, an obvious question shining in his eyes. He recognized that the boy had been shot from an angle Jon couldn’t have managed, and that Jon hadn’t fired his weapon. But, of course, he hadn’t been aware of a sniper on the scene.
That’s how it fuckin’ works, asshole.
Jon shifted and swiftly pulled his own trigger, as if to further their target’s doubt, pumping several rounds into the older male without effort. And just like that, Pretty Bird was on his own.
Anger darkened the man’s face. “You have no idea who you’re crossing,” he said to Jon.
Jon spun his rifle around to rest on his shoulder. A statement and blatant insult. “You’re obviously someone of distinction in the Veracruz Cartel,” he replied. “The thing you’re missing is that I don’t give a fuck. It’syouwho doesn’t know what you’ve stepped in.” He started forward. “You moved into my hometown. Set your sights on my girl. And brought your filth to my streets. One of your guys even put my buddy in the hospital. But you think because you can talk to birds and have some connections down in Mexico that you’re going to win this pissing contest?”
Pretty Bird’s lips pulled back in a snarl. “I have more than ‘connections’, you imbecile. And nothing about this town, this county, or thiscountry, belongs to you. I’ll take who and what I want from it. No washed-up Marine will stop me.”
Jon came to a stop barely arm’s length from the target. “You sure you wanna say that”—he pointed down—“while you’re ankle deep in water?”
Lance moved his head from his scope and studied the broader scene. Jon was right. They’d positioned Pretty Bird perfectly so that the fucker had come to a stop on the ground, his feet wholly covered in whatever water Jon had pulled up from the pipes of the house. Water that surrounded both corpses, but didn’t touch Jon and surely hadn’t flooded to their brothers out of sight. Jon was thorough like that.
Lance set down the rifle he’d planned to use and pushed to his feet. Important as the job was, it was also personal. And he wanted in.
As soon as he made himself visible, Pretty Bird’s eyes snapped to him, undoubtedly putting together his previously hidden position and whatever sniper speculation he’d had. His glare raked over Lance. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a hospital somewhere?”
“Oh, so you know who I am,” Lance said as he stepped up to Jon. “Then you know I have a bone to pick with you.” Multiple, really.
The arrogant bastard scoffed and tipped his head up to the sky. “I know neither of you will matter in another minute.”
Assuming the man was preparing to assault them with more weaponized birds, Lance quipped, “It takes you a whole minute?”
