chapter
fourteen
DOX
Over the years, Dox had seen his share of blood and guts. Still, what Manus did with that Espada in five short seconds was a wonder to behold. Dox was so stunned by the man’s sudden reappearance, and by the havoc he wreaked, that for a moment he froze, thinking he wasn’t seeing things right. Fortunately, the sounds of gunshots from the team on the left brought him out of it.
He spun and brought up the Wilson. Larison was already engaging. Dox was so adrenalized he barely heard the report of the Glock—just a muted pop, pop, pop. Something snapped back the head of one of the three men and the man went down. Larison, dialing in a head shot.
The other two raced forward, firing as they ran, trying to get to the trees. Dox knew the chances of someone hitting what he was aiming for while running flat-out were decidedly poor, but still, having rounds flying even at random did tend to pose a challenge to your own ability to aim. He took a deep breath, put his front sight on the torso of the man on the right, let the breath ease out, and pressed the trigger. The round caught the man in the shoulder. It threw off his stride, but the man managed to keep his footing. Dox adjusted. The next shot caught the man in the midsection. The man flinched like he’d been punched hard in the gut. He tried to get his gun up and back into play, but Dox had zeroed him now and put three more rounds into the man’s chest. The man twitched, staggered, did a half pirouette, and went down.
The last man, number six, had managed to make it to a tree—with the current angles, better cover than Dox and Larison had. Without anything needing to be said, they raced for their own tree, both laying down suppressing fire as they ran. They got behind the trunk just in time to avoid a fusillade of shots. The tree, which had looked plenty thick from far away, suddenly seemed like a sapling.
Larison swapped in a fresh magazine. “You want to show this guy what a pincer is all about?”
Dox swapped in a fresh mag, too. “Hell yes. Who goes first?”
“You.”
“Had a feeling I shouldn’t let you choose.”
“Just about who’s the better shot. No offense.”
“None taken. Though if something happens to me, I’d be grateful if you’d kill him dead after. Of course, before would be my preference.”
“Shut up and go.”
Dox sucked in a long breath and dashed out from behind the tree—
Larison popped partway out from the other side and began firing—
The remaining man fired back—
Dox felt a round whiz past him, another, and then—
He was behind the next tree. It was no thicker than the previous one, but still he’d never been so grateful for the proximity of nature. The last line of a poem zipped through his head—But only God can make a tree—and he almost laughed.
He glanced back at Larison. Larison nodded. Dox took a deep breath, stepped right, and started firing. In his peripheral vision, he could see Larison sprinting forward. This time, the sixth man didn’t even try to return fire. Maybe he was swapping in a fresh mag. Maybe he was shitting his pants. Maybe all of the above.
Larison made it to the next tree. Their three positions now formed a scalene triangle, with Dox and Larison at the base and Dox closer to number six’s position.
There were more trees ahead. If Dox had been the man, he would have found the options depressingly bleak. Dox and Larison could just keep leapfrogging closer and closer until they flanked him, one keeping him pinned down while the other moved. Absent a hell of a lucky shot, at this point it was only a matter of time.
Number six must have been doing the same math. Because just as Dox was about to dart to the next tree, the man went tearing off in the opposite direction, zigzagging as he moved. But his zigs and zags weren’t as random as they might have been, and Larison, stepping out from behind his tree, brought up the Glock, took a moment to track the man’s movements, and fired. The round caught the man in the back and staggered him. Dox fired twice, nailing him both times. Larison shot once more and the man went down.