And as the black spots fade, I realize fast that someone has sent a JCPenney dressed-Jackie-fucking-Chan-reject for me in small town, Virginia.
My mind mercifully slows then, and tunnel vision kicks in as he practically dances off the trunk while I visually weigh him, and he does the same, his smirk still in place.
This motherfucker thinks he can take me.
I discard one of my Glocks a few feet away, and he does the same, then I toss the other. I know I made the right call when he shakes out his hands in preparation.
Just as I’m tempted to play along and give him the fucking Bruce Lee come hither wave, he lunges for me, and I slam an elbow into his stomach, robbing him of breath. The blow lifts his body, throwing him back enough for me to land another in his gut and one below the belt that has him gasping for God.
He was expecting a valiant fight, an opener by way of a fist to dodge.
He grips his balls, his face twisted in pain as I move in.
“You went there first, motherfucker. Where is she?”
I know his type, entitled from an early age, just like the fucking brats who made fun of my accent when I landed myself in the Triple Falls school playground—spoiled, threatened by what they don’t know. The type that would rather give a verbal or physical beatdown than hold out a hand to help someone new. I’ve met very few of the type of man that would. Greg is the type of man Preston would have become if he didn’t have a good heart and decent soul. But I guess I should be thankful for fuckers like these. Because of them and often being outnumbered, I learned quickly how to street fight—rule-free, relentless, and fucking dirty.
He regroups too quickly and lifts his chin.
“It’s just you and me out here, birdman.” He flexes his fingers, and I rush him. He manages to get another punch in before I grip him by the collar and deliver a head butt so brutal he damn near collapses on me, blood gushing from his nose as his legs give out.
With a growl of frustration, he recovers, darting his eyes to the ground for a gun he’s not getting back.
“That was your only chance, bitch, and you lost it.” Knowing he’s about to tap into his reserves, I rain down my fists in his face. The more time I deal with this fucking piece of shit, the more time I lose getting to her. His uppercut narrowly misses me, and that’s when I go feral, letting my rage take over temporarily until he gasps and gurgles beneath me. I have to force myself to stop, still unsure of what or who waits inside.
The piece of shit sputtering beneath me is my only chance of knowing what I’m up against. Scanning the yard for the birds who should have already fucking been here, a genuine fear sets in.
Where the fuck are they? Backup should be here by now.
There’s not a single sign of anyone, not even the drones. Wracking my brain, I know I’m fucked because I left my cell in the car. I have no way of getting word out or knowing who’s coming and when.
Greg whimpers beneath me as I tuck his gun in the back of my jeans beneath my hoodie and retrieve my Glocks.
He begins to fade out as I glare down at him. “No, no,” I slap at his face, and when he doesn’t rouse, I press my finger into his destroyed nose. A shriek of pain leaves him as he comes to, groaning in agony as I drag him toward the rain drain where I have another gun and some extra clips. I stash them where I can fit them in both my jeans and hoodie.
“Who’s inside, Greg?”
Greg coughs and sputters beneath me as I press into his nose again, digging around the busted cartilage through the massive gash with my thumb. He screams, and I cover his mouth, knowing those inside heard it.
“I’m only going to ask one more time, dickhead.”
An outraged noise comes from his throat, something that sounds close to a laugh, just before I feel the metal in the back of my head.