Page 77 of Pirate

They would need to reload soon. That would be her chance.

It would mean leaving him behind. She would want to argue, stubborn girl, but he couldn’t let her. They wouldn’t have time. He saw no other options, no other exits.

Not for her at least.

For him, he saw none. He was not fast, not on his leg. Going up an incline would be even worse. Add the pain and the slick pavement… He would slow her down for sure. Plus, if he ran with her, there would be no one to cover their escape or to get to Pumpkin.

The absence of Frankie’s SUV was a beacon of hope. She would have called for help. But if most of the club was already at the steakhouse or on their way, they could be up to forty-five minutes away. That was an eternity in a firefight.

Using his thumb, he unlocked the lockbox. He sure missed his M4 Carbine rifle right about now. His Sig Sauer P320-M18 would have to do. He loaded the clip, chambered the first round, and flipped the safety. He pocketed the single spare magazine that was kept in the case. Between the two magazines, he had forty-two rounds.

“You’re not going to like what I have to say but we don’t have time for you to argue with me. My cage is one spark away from going up in flames. I’m going to draw their fire. As soon as I start shooting, you make a run for the bridge. Do not look back,Sophia! You run as fast as you can. That’s more important than staying low. Do you understand?”

Her frantic eyes glanced to the bridge behind them and then back at him. “You’re not coming with me, are you?”

Pirate’s trained ear picked up the ceasefire of one weapon. Now was her chance. “I can’t! Go! Go now!”

Without a backwards glance at her or time for farewells, Pirate rose. He kept the shell of his shot up cage in front of his abdomen. His eyes took in everything in a split second.

On the road directly in front of him was Pumpkin’s wrecked hog. Pirate’s headlights were completely shot out, which darkened him, his cage, and Sophia. There were no lights on the bridge. Between the storm and the darkness, he prayed she had enough cover to make it to the other side unscathed.

Behind the illumination of their red tail lights were two silhouettes. The doors of the driver and passenger sides of theHummerwere open. The gunmen were using the doors as cover while shooting through their open or broken windows at the Charger.

He couldn’t see the men exactly. It was far too dark and the rain was too heavy for that, but he could make out their movements. One was firing blindly in their direction. The muzzle blast looked like a sparkler against the darkness. The second was reloading, his head bent like a target in the center of his open window.

Knowing the flash of his own muzzle would give his position away, Pirate carefully lined up his shot before firing. He immediately dropped back down. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sophia was no longer by the cage. Relief filled him, but he did not let it distract him. He could not search for her beyond seeing she was gone.

The rain kept him from hearing the thud of a body striking pavement, but the immediate silence of all gunfire followed by indiscernible shouting told Pirate he’d hit his mark.

Not wanting to lose the advantage of the distraction, Pirate worked his way as quickly as he could to the front of the cage. When he saw no movement coming from theHummer, he walked at a fast pace in a hunched position to its trunk. Running for him would have been less sturdy, especially on a rain-slicked road.

Pirate put his back to theHummer. Wet, cold metal touched his back. He paused, listening. The man he’d shot had been on the passenger side of the cage.

Dropping down onto his left knee, Pirate looked beneath the cage for feet. Outlined by the rain, he could make out a still form by the front passenger tire. He saw no signs of the second shooter.

“On your feet, asshole!” came from directly behind him.

Heart pounding in his ears, Pirate slowly rose. Of course, the shooter was behind him. Rookie mistake. In his defense, he was a bit rusty.

“Drop the gun!”

Pirate glanced over his right shoulder. His hands were raised with his M18 gripped loosely in his right hand.

Like him, the gunman was soaked through. The taillights highlighted a man of average height with a muscular body. He wore military fatigues, complete with green camo pants, tan long sleeve shirt, and boots.

But Pirate could tell right away that this man wasn’t military. The way he held the gun, the amateur stance of his feet, the fact that he was too close to Pirate.

Guns were long range weapons. The closer one got to their target, the better the shooter’s chances of hitting their target—butit also upped their chances of getting their weapon takenaway from them. Even an unarmed man could disarm someone with a gun if they knew what they were doing.

Pirate continued to turn around as slowly as he could so he could assess the shooter. He was around Pirate’s age, thirty-ish. His gun was an AK-47, the most common assault rifle on the market and also the most unreliable. The guns were known to misfire, jam, and malfunction. They were cheaply made, which attributed to their poor craftsmanship. But a gun was a gun. Cheap guns that could hold thirty rounds per magazine and shoot up to six hundred rounds per minute were extremely effective, regardless of their deficiencies.

As often as the guns malfunctioned, Pirate could not rely on the fact that this gun would now. Or that the man was unknowingly out of bullets.

“I said, drop the gun, asshole!” the man shouted above the rain.

Flipping the safety, Pirate tossed his gun into the road away from where the gunman stood.

Quick as a flash, Pirate shifted his torso and head to the left while sweeping his arms to the right. His left palm smacked the barrel of the gun, forcing it to shoot wide past his right shoulder as the untrained gunman panicked at being attacked.

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