Page 114 of Chad's Chase
When he brought his shrewd, prudent gaze back to Rafail’s, the slight widening of his father’s eyes told him he’d guessed all the spots correctly.
Understanding the peril, Rafail spared no more seconds, and time slowed as he flexed his index finger on the trigger.
With each step Chad had made earlier toward his father, he’d calculatingly, undetectably, shifted half an inch to the left, which manipulated Rafail’s aim a quarter of an inch off Chad’s right temple. Knowing the man would be too unassuming, unskilled, unaware, to even notice what Chad was doing.
Watching the finger on the trigger, Chad concentrated, and one, two, three seconds before Rafail fully pulled back, Chad smoothly tilted his head to the side as if dodging a bee, and the bullet that should have pierced through his temple whizzed by in a glint of heat and grazed the top of his ear.
Without giving Rafail the chance to realize he’d missed, Chad dove to the side while simultaneously whipping out his Walther from his waist, but landed solidly hard on his side before he could fire.
Frantic, Rafail popped off another wild shot as he shouted, “Kill him!”
Before any of the men could emerge from the peep spots, Chad aimed precisely and unambiguously, capped his father in both knees, swift and easy, then quickly rolled behind a long leather couch.
He upturned the thing just as bullets started flying his way. The couch could be his shield for no more than a few seconds.
He had one gun. A Walther P22. A magazine with eight rounds left. Eight rounds he had to use economically and efficiently.
Judging by the gunfire, experience told him there were exactly five shooters. None of those five shooters had hit him yet, which meant they were keeping a distance.
Straight-up cowardice.
Reaching for his mirror aviators hooked on his front pocket, he angled the thing slightly above the couch to check where each man was situated. The nearest shooters to him were the one who’d been in the storage room, and the one who’d been behind the tree plant. The two from behind the log columns were taking baby steps towards the couch, while the fifth was guarding a prone Rafail.
A bullet slapped the aviators from his fingers.
Fuck. He loved those.
Reinforcing his grip on his P22, he decided to take out the two nearest shooters first. With his free arm, he gripped under the bottom of the sofa and flipped the thing over in one direction while he dove in the opposite direction, which landed him by the fireplace.
When the shooters predictably began blasting bullets at the innocent couch, in that split second before they could realize his tactic, Chad fluently took out the man beside the tree plant. Pop—one bullet through the neck. Thud—down he went. Then the other from the storage room. Pop—one bullet through the eye. Thud—down he went.
As the shooter guarding Rafail popped two embarrassingly off rounds at him and missed, Chad decided this rookie didn’t deserve the beloved bullets in his gun, so he instead reached above him for the fire poker from the fireplace and adeptly speared it straight at the guy. The fire poker unerringly pierced right through his heart. Thud—another one down.
Before Chad could think to take cover from the other two down by the log posts, he heard the unmistakable sound of a suppressed gunfire.
Thud—down went man number four.
Another suppressed fire and, thud—man number five down.
The fuck?
Chad hopped to his feet, and all of a sudden Org’s men, who he’d specifically instructed to follow Sambo, were in the house.
No.
The light from the front door shifted, and Chad glanced over to see Org standing there.
No.
If they were all here, then… “Where the fuck is Jhay?”
Org tutted. “Oh, Shadreek. Ever so discourteous. How about you start with, ‘thank you for saving my life, Org’?”
Chad felt like his heart was going to implode into a red splatter of blood and arteries. “You gave me control over them. I told them what to do.Whyare they here?”
“To save you,” Org artlessly replied.
“I don’t need fucking saving.”
