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Shit!
Brandon dove sideways behind the closest dune, plowing into the sand. It flew into his eyes and mouth. He spat it out, hurriedly wiped at his eyes as he scrambled into a crouch and drew his weapon.
Damn, that had been way too close. Blinking to clear his vision, he peered between the dunes at the thick line of trees he needed to reach. Only a few dozen yards away, but from where he sat, it seemed like miles.
His stinging eyes watered, blurring his vision. Squinting, he barely saw the shadow detach from a tree, was just able to make out the shape of an arm waving him forward.
He glanced in the other direction, every cell in his body telling him to stay put. But the shooters were closing in. This mound of sand provided only temporary concealment and cover.
Staying here alone and cut off made him far easier to pick off. To make it out of this alive, he, Travis and Groz needed to face this threat as a unit. He had to get to them, fast.
The hand waved at him again, the motion quick, impatient.
Steeling himself, he crouched and balanced his weight on the balls of his feet. Pulling in a deep breath, he jumped up and took off, leaving the relative safety of the dune.
The sharp crack of a rifle split the air. Sand sprayed up at his feet. He kept running. Muzzle flashes lit up the shadows amongst the trees as Groz and Travis returned fire.
Brandon ran for his life, aiming straight between the muzzle flashes.
“Four of them,” Travis announced as Brandon burst into the deep, cool shadows of the woods. “Could be more back with the boat.”
He cut behind a thick trunk and bent over at the waist, gasping for breath. His feet were still mostly numb from the cold, his blood pumping wildly. But he hadn’t caught a bullet yet, and hoped it stayed that way.
“Two guys with rifles, the other two have pistols,” Groz said to Brandon’s right, peering out toward the dunes from behind the tree he stood behind.
Dammit. “How long until the helo gets here?” he panted, gripping his pistol in both hands, getting ready to turn and fire at the approaching men.
“Too damn long,” Travis muttered, his attention riveted on the dunes as well. “They’ve broken into two teams.” He signaled with his right hand, indicating their position. “They’re converging from both sides, using the dunes as cover. I don’t have a visual now. Groz?”
“Negative. I’ll take the right. You watch the left.”
Brandon looked behind them through the trees, searching for a way through that wouldn’t leave them exposed. There were lots of big trees to use as cover, but no cleared path. The entire forest floor was covered by thick, tangled underbrush, and there were areas where the trees thinned out too much to provide much if any concealment.
They had to get through this bit of forest and back to the marina where help would be coming. Yet any move they made would leave them exposed, making them easy targets for the riflemen moving in from the dunes.
“We gotta fall back,” he said. They couldn’t stay here.
“Contact, ten o’clock,” Travis blurted.
Brandon tensed and whipped around, crouching low as he brought his weapon up, aiming in the same direction Travis was. “Fall back,” he ordered, his gaze pinned on the edge of the dunes to the left. “I’ll cover you.”
The bastards were close now, hiding somewhere just out of sight.
Travis hesitated a moment, then broke from cover, racing deeper into the woods. Shots burst out from the dunes, peppering the trees, whizzing through the trees like angry bees.
Groz and Brandon both returned measured fire, hoping to keep the shooter pinned down. But they had limited ammo. Brandon only had the one magazine, so they had to conserve their shots and hope backup arrived in time.
“Groz, go,” he bit out when the rifle stopped firing.
Groz broke from his cover and raced past him, leaping over a fallen log. This time shots came from the right.
Brandon crouched low and waited, watching for the shooters to emerge from behind the dunes. They were still over a hundred feet away, the distance and angle making a pistol shot almost useless.
He stood his ground, unmoving, the hair on his nape standing up. Come on, you bastards. Show yourselves. He would fire every last bullet he had left to protect himself and his brothers.
“Whit, we’re in position. Go.” Travis’s voice floated from somewhere behind him.
Setting his jaw, Brandon slowly straightened, preparing to break from cover. He stole one last glance over his shoulder, his weight already shifting to take the first step.
He caught a flicker of movement on the extreme left edge of the dunes.
He stopped, spun to face it and stalked forward slowly, weapon up.
“Whit!” one of the guys called in a loud whisper.
He kept going, never taking his eyes off the target. And it paid off.
Someone inched out from behind the dune. Brandon saw the barrel of the rifle rising, swung around the tree and fired two quick shots. Blood spattered the sand.
He jerked back behind cover as a spray of bullets streaked through the forest. One of them slammed into the tree he was crouched behind, the thud reverberating through the wood like a hammer blow.
He glanced behind him. Hidden in the shadows, he spotted Groz behind a rotted trunk, weapon in hand. Groz waved him forward.
Brandon leapt from his hiding spot. Sporadic shots rang out behind him. This time the bullets were close enough that he heard them whiz past.
He raced past Groz, veered left toward a nice, thick tree and found Travis crouched behind it. “Winged one of ‘em,” he said, breathing hard, blinking to try and clear the rest of the sand from his stinging eyes. “Not sure how bad.”
They crouched together at the base of the trunk, peering around opposite sides to check for the shooters. “One o’clock,” Travis whispered.
Brandon focused there, watched as someone emerged out of the light and into the shadows at the edge of the forest, and prepared to fire. He only had six shots left. He had to make each one count.
The shooter vanished in a thick clump of shadow between a distant tree and the undergrowth. An eerie silence crept over the forest.
The birds stopped chirping. The treetops seemed to still, not even the breath of wind stirring them.
Brandon quieted his breathing, his whole body tense. Where are you, you bastard?
The figure up ahead crept cautiously out of the shadows, probably having figured out they were armed only with pistols. From the angle of his arms, Brandon couldn’t tell if this guy held a rifle or not. But he was betting the asshole did.
Next to him, Travis stilled and glanced up. Then Brandon heard it over the beat of his pulse in his ears.
A distant, rhythmic thud in the air. Growing louder with each passing second.
The Coast Guard helo.
The figure out front with the weapon froze, then edged back between two trees, hiding all but his shoulder as he looked up.
Brandon remained where he was, waiting for an opening. The sound of the helo grew louder. Then a bright light arrowed down between the trees, flooding the forest, burning away the shadows.
Brandon sucked in a breath.
Another figure stood well past the first shooter, having penetrated far deeper toward them without them noticing. He held a rifle and wore a vest. And from his current position he was well within range of Groz.
No sooner had the thought crossed Brandon’s mind than shots exploded to his left. Groz.
The rifleman dropped to his belly and raised his weapon. Preparing to shoot Groz through the tree he hid behind.
As one, Travis and Brandon both jumped out from behind cover and fired at him.
The shooter jerked, shot a wild burst into the air. Travis and Brandon both hit the dirt. Bullets sprayed above them in a wide arc, thudding into the surrounding trees.
Flat on his belly, Brandon raised his weapon and fired two more precious shots. This time he hit the target’s shoulder. The man grunted and rolled to the side, trying to crawl behind cover.
Before Brandon could follow, Groz suddenly charged out into the open, racing forward to shoot the crawling man. But the other shooter was on the move too.
“Groz, look out!” Brandon yelled. He and Travis jumped up, both of them rushing forward to intercept the threat.
The second shooter snapped off two more shots, then turned and ran back toward the dunes. Brandon raced after him, ignoring Travis’s shout to stop.
No way. He wasn’t letting this asshole slip away now. He was going down.
The helo’s spotlight lit up the bastard’s every move, tracking him through the woods. Brandon chased him down, the soles of his thawing feet now on fire.
Ahead of him, the shooter whirled to fire at him. Brandon ducked behind a log as the bullets sailed wide to the left.
Brandon had the asshole in his sights now and wasn’t letting him go. He dropped to one knee as the guy turned to flee again and fired.
The runner grabbed the back of one thigh and fell to his knees with a garbled yell.
Brandon shot to his feet and ran at him, ready to fire again as the pounding of feet came behind him. Probably Travis. “Don’t you fucking move,” he roared at the wounded man, finger on the trigger. He had one round left. Enough to end this bastard if he tried to shoot again.
Above them, the pitch of the helo’s engine changed. The beam of the spotlight grew brighter, more concentrated as the aircraft descended, staying on the downed shooter. The other two shooters made a break for it, racing away from the helicopter. Now there was the added risk of friendly fire for him to worry about.
Brandon slowed as he approached him, breathing hard, reining in the urge to kill. Then three more men suddenly materialized out of the darkness into the beam of the searchlight. Armed and wearing uniforms.
“US Coast Guard!” one of them shouted, a riflescope to his eye. “Drop your weapons!”
Brandon clenched his jaw and slowly did as he was told, setting his pistol on the ground and raising his hands on either side of his head. He glanced over his left shoulder to see Travis doing the same about ten yards back, and Groz standing near the other shooter, who was lying facedown on the ground.
The Coast Guardsmen rushed forward to secure the scene. Brandon stared at the wounded man in front of him. The man turned his head.
Shock blasted through Brandon as he got his first good look at the guy’s face. Jesus Christ...
A deep, burning rage ignited in his gut, cutting through the cold and adrenaline. The overpowering urge to leap on the bastard and smash his evil face in had Brandon squeezing his hands into fists.
“The two people in the other boat,” he called out to the nearest Coastie. “Are they safe?”
The man looked him up and down, approaching with his weapon up. “Who are you?”
“Staff Sergeant Brandon Whitaker.”
The man lowered his weapon and nodded. “They’re both safe at the marina. And the other two suspects are in custody.”
Brandon closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He needed to get to Jaia.
He only hoped it wouldn’t break her when she found out her own boss had just tried to kill her.
