The Chaos Kind (John Rain #11)(19)

Fifty feet. He raced over the wet grass, knowing there was a chance they might hear or even feel his footfalls. But he couldn’t afford stealth. Speed was everything. Speed and violence of action.

Thirty feet. Someone on the opposite team saw him and began frantically waving his arms.

Twenty feet. The three team members stopped. Checked their flanks.

Ten feet. The man farthest to the right started turning clockwise. He must have sensed Manus’s footfalls because his right shoulder began to come up, his head turtling in—

Five feet. Manus brought back the Espada like a tennis player about to hit a blistering forehand. The man kept turning, turning, his face rotating toward Manus now, his gun swinging into view—

Manus whipped in the Espada. The man’s throat and the lower part of his face were protected by his shoulder, but it didn’t matter, the blade blasted into the bridge of his nose, cut through his eyes, and sheared halfway through his skull. The man’s body convulsed and Manus yanked the blade free.

The man was falling but there was no time to wait; Manus shoved him to the right as the next man kept turning, turning, his gun coming around—

Manus brought down the Espada like a hatchet, aiming for the man’s wrist but connecting halfway up the forearm. The blade sliced through tendon, muscle, and bone. The man shrieked loudly enough for Manus to hear, and the gun, the man’s hand and wrist still attached to it, dropped to the wet grass.

The woman, the jogger, had turned her head all the way toward him. Her eyes were desperate, shocked, afraid. It meant nothing to Manus. All he cared about was the gun, and the woman had now brought it nearly all the way around—

Manus shoved the second man aside and leaped forward, to the left of the gun, smashing into the woman’s right shoulder, jamming her arm into her body, catching the nape of her neck to keep her from being thrown back by the impact. She struggled to bring the gun around and Manus launched the Espada from hip level as though he was throwing an uppercut, arcing it up under her arm and spearing it up behind her chin and into her brain. The force of the blow lifted her off the ground and for an instant her body twitched as Manus held it aloft. Then he jerked the knife the other way, and she collapsed backward, limbs twitching, insensate.

The second man was on his knees, blood spurting from the stump of his right arm, pawing for the gun with his remaining hand. Manus strode over, raised the Espada overhead like an ice pick, and plunged the point down through the back of the man’s head. The man’s face slammed into the sodden grass like a cannonball, muddy water spraying up around it. Manus jerked the blade free. The man listed left and folded to his side.

Something buzzed past Manus. He realized it was a round. An instant later there was the crack of a gunshot, loud enough for him to faintly hear. Another. A third.

The other team was shooting at him. And where he stood, there was no cover.





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—