34

Ackerman had nearly dozed off as he listened to the normals make fools of themselves. The posturing coming from both sides of the equation had entertained him for a moment, considering that none of the people arguing and threatening to hurt one another truly wanted to make good on their threats. All the while, they ignored the true threat.

He had been waiting for one of the the three to attempt to roll him over and check for vital signs. His arms were tucked up under his body where the others couldn’t see, and he had plenty of practice performing similar maneuvers in the past. Although, those were always when he was on the opposite side of the law. He supposed the concept was the same, and therefore, Ackerman considered himself an expert in looking lifeless.

As he waited—and calculated the odds that the children may shoot one other before he could diffuse the situation—Ackerman considered Emily Morgan’s departure, not only for the moment but potentially forever. There were very few people in his life whose absence he would notice in any meaningful way. Emily was one of them. The thought of her not being part of the team or his life filled him with a strange empty feeling that he couldn’t identify. Or perhaps the sensation merely stemmed from the shards of metal embedded in his side, that were possibly pressing against his spinal column.

Finally, the one Liana had called Ramirez rolled Ackerman over and set the tumblers in motion. He had premeditated his response since the moment he smelled the cheap aftershave and sheep feces that stained all of Canyon’s men. That scent—being carried on the strong updrafts crawling up the side of the sharp drop-off at the back of the property—was a dead giveaway to the presence of additional playmates. Ackerman had even detected the smell of a well lubricated assault rifle. From that point, it had been simply a matter of holding Liana’s hand while he handled the situation.

Now, Ackerman greeted Ramirez with the sight of a grenade in his right hand and the pin for that grenade in his left.

He watched Ramirez’s eyes go wide, but Ackerman decided to sell it even further and released the detonation mechanism of the grenade.

Ramirez shouted a warning and dived toward the back door. His partner and Officer Liana rushed into the front room.

Ackerman tossed the grenade, which was already beginning to spill smoke, into the front room of the trading post. Then, he pulled the bone-handled Bowie knife from where he had tucked it into his waistband and rolled toward the fleeing form of Ramirez, whom he had deemed as the greatest of the two weak threats.

Still in motion, Ackerman swung his arm out in a wide arc and connected with the back of Ramirez’s leg. The blade, which Ackerman had sharpened to a razor’s edge, easily sliced through skin and sinew and dropped the fleeing former soldier onto his face against the rotting plank floor.

Ending the roll by shooting to his feet—which stabbed sweet pain into his side—Ackerman grabbed Ramirez by the belt and pulled the fleeing attacker away from the exit.

His opponent’s training was evident in the quick recovery the man displayed despite his wounds, as he turned on Ackerman and started striking and grappling. Perhaps, under different circumstances, Ackerman would have enjoyed testing his ground game against Ramirez, who he had pegged as a former Marine. But at the moment, he had another opponent to subdue and an innocent bystander to babysit.

Ramirez tried to his best moves to bring Ackerman to the ground, but the effort was quickly silenced by a knife penetrating Ramirez’s left arm, the one holding the assault rifle.

Ackerman left the knife embedded in Ramirez’s flesh and ripped the rifle from the screaming former soldier’s grasp. As Ramirez reached for the handle of the knife, Ackerman ejected the magazine from the AK47 and cleared the round from the chamber. He then used the butt of the rifle to incapacitate Mr. Ramirez with a blow to the head.

The young man’s head snapped back with sufficient force that Ackerman was satisfied that Ramirez was now either unconscious or wishing he was. The rest of the building had filled with smoke, but he could still make out two shadows within the chemical haze. Luckily, the remaining attacker was a head taller than Liana. Unfortunately, the young officer was not doing as he had instructed and staying out of his way. Instead, he watched as the smaller shadow rushed at the larger one and began an attempt at wrestle the assault rifle from the thin man’s grip.

Ackerman rolled his eyes. It was so much easier working alone. Holding Ramirez’s emptied rifle by the stock, he flipped the weapon over, with the butt facing the front room and the pistol grip point at the ceiling. To do it the other way threw off the weight, as he had learned from experience.

Stretching his left arm out in front of him as a guide, he hoisted the rifle above his right shoulder as if he were throwing a spear.

Once in position, he yelled, “Liana! Down!” Then he cocked back his arm and launched the weapon at the head of the thin man.

As he twisted his core to make the throw, he felt white hot tendrils of pain shoot through his midsection. To Ackerman, the pain that would have likely caused a normal person to pass out altogether was akin to a sexual release. Although, he also felt the metal fragments growing closer to his spine and understood that the pleasure of his pain hid the fact that Liana had been correct in her assessment… If his wounds weren’t treated soon, he would bleed out and die.

The rifle he had used as a make-shift javelin struck its mark, knocking the thin man back a few steps. To his surprise, the skeletal attacker stayed on his feet and kept hold of his rifle. Thankfully, Officer Liana had followed instructions, dropped low, and moved away from the intruder.

Ackerman stepped into the fray with two large strides, grabbed the thin man by the right wrist, twisted the arm up, and dislocated the shoulder with an audible pop.

Canyon’s thug screamed and released his AK47, which Ackerman emptied and discarded as he had the other rifle. The thin man dropped to the floor and clutched his as he rolled back and forth in pain and cursed in the People’s language.

Retrieving the smoke grenade from where he had tossed it previously, Ackerman calmly walked to the back door and threw the handy little gadget over the side of the bluff.

As he passed the dazed and shaking Ramirez, he pulled the Bowie knife from the man’s forearm, which woke the former soldier with a shriek of agony. Then he pulled over his original milk crate and sat back down, waiting for the smoke to clear. Once the haze had sufficiently dissipated, he said, “If you boys want to live, I’m going to need you both to kindly remove your pants.”

The thin man—still crying in the front room—screamed, “You broke my arm!”

“It’s only dislocated. Stop whining. Count yourself lucky that it wasn’t your neck.”

Ramirez—as he removed his belt and applied it to his leg as a tourniquet—said, “What are you going to do with us?”

Glancing from one man to the other, Ackerman shrugged and replied, “If you play stupid games, you’ll win stupid prizes.”