Cruz
My third target had been a slippery fuck. I’d shot at him, only for him to duck the moment I squeezed the trigger to take cover behind the remains of an old wall.
Motherfucker just dodged a fucking bullet! What the fuck! Ain’t never seen no one do that shit before.
I saw the pate of his bald head sticking four or so inches above the molding brick of the wall.
I quickly reloaded and took careful aim. He didn’t manage the feat twice, the top of his skull exploding with a spray of horrid gore like I’d just shot an overripe watermelon. My confidence was restored.
Four shots.
Movement at the window caught my eye again. I turned the scope toward it, seeing two stupid Russians glaring through the dirty glass. They were saved by their own stupidity, each of them pushing one another erratically as they peered through the glass. I wasn’t wasting my last bullet on a potshot at two fucking idiots.
Then, something amazing happened. The two men were slapped aside by a hulking figure. An ugly head popped out of the window, forming a perfect target. I was almost stunned by his sheer arrogance and stupidity. I reloaded the rifle, chambering my last bullet.
I took aim at his large head. Just before I fired, I saw him shouting something, probably at the mobsters hiding here and there around the farmhouse. And then he looked straight at me, his eye fixing on the scope, narrowing.
The bullet went straight through his left eye. His head jerked back, and he dropped out of sight.
Five bullets gone. Four kills. I kissed the wooden stock of the rifle and threw it away into the undergrowth beside me. I recovered the 9mm pistol in front of me and tucked it into my boot.
I didn’t have any time to waste. I had to seize this moment of confusion, and pounce on the remaining gangsters before they were able to formulate some sort of effective defense.
I edged back from the tree I was kneeling at before rolling to my right, up on my feet in one swift movement. I ran parallel to the edge of the embankment heading for the old fence, which was to be my cover as I approached the house.
I chose the revolver as my first weapon—well made, powerful, accurate and reliable. Clicking the safety off, I ran along the right side of the fence, ducking into a crouch as I sprinted as fast as I could at such an ungainly angle.
As I got halfway to the house, I stopped my straight sprint and started a monkey run instead, shifting my weight from right to left as I ran, my steps awkward and wide. It was hard to get a decent shot off at someone who was stepping from side to side erratically as they ran; I knew it all too well.
A gunshot echoed off to my left as I was spotted. It had come from outside the house, at the corner of the left wall. I spied movement from the edge of my vision.
Seeing a relatively undamaged section of fence ahead, thick with bramble and weeds, I stopped suddenly, rolling across the hard ground into a crouch. I popped up from cover, right hand extended, left hand steadying the revolver as I rested it on the wood. I then closed my left eye and lined up my target’s chest into the iron sights. I’d covered enough distance for range to be irrelevant to my aim. My finger squeezed the trigger twice, letting the recoil subside for a split second before firing off the second shot. I was up and running as my target dropped to the floor, twitching.
Bullets sprayed well above my head as I continued my run. One of the Russians was using what sounded like an UZI to shoot at me from a downstairs window of the house. But he may as well have been shooting with his eyes closed.
I reached the end of the fence, my approach masked again by thick overgrown weeds. I heard quiet Russian voices, likely on the far side of the wall where I’d shot the bullet dodger.
Approaching the cover of the fence, I stopped, picking a small rock up from the uneven ground beneath me. I threw the rock over to my right, hearing a thunk as it struck brick. Alarmed shouts from what sounded like two men, mere meters from where I was, drifted towards me.
I took a deep breath and sprung up onto my feet, aiming the revolver over the fence. Two men were aiming their guns towards the noise of the rock I’d thrown. I shot them both in the head in quick succession, the snap of the recoil light in my tensed forearms.
I hurdled the fence a moment later, landing lightly on my feet. A sudden flare of pain erupted in my left arm as I was shot, the bullet ripping through the flesh of my left tricep.
One of the Russians in the ground floor of the house had spotted me, his pistol blazing rapidly as he fired off rounds in my direction. The angle was tight, his view obstructed by the narrow window he was shooting from.
I jumped the wall and landed next to a Russian body as I leaned into the corner of the wall, where it met the outside of the farmhouse. I flexed my left arm, looking around for movement, but seeing no one.
I glanced at my forearm. Just a flesh wound.
Confident I was safe from danger, I quickly tied a bandage tightly around my left arm, staunching the blood flow somewhat. I edged along the wall of the farmhouse in silence, eyes scanning my surroundings.
I figured there were at least two Russians on the ground floor, and at least two upstairs. Alexandra would be upstairs, likely against the back wall where there were no windows. I had reached the back of the farmhouse and poked my head around the corner. Still, no one in sight. I guessed the two men I’d just shot had originally been stationed on the far side of the building.
Suddenly, I heard a woman’s scream from upstairs.
Alexandra, I’m here. Hold on, doll.