by Brent Towns
Omega reached down with his other hand and grabbed Kane’s ankle, throwing him off balance. Kane went down on his back, hot pain burning through his stab wound, with Omega riding his chest.
Omega left the knife buried in Kane’s leg and wrapped vice-like fingers around his neck. Kane snarled like a wild animal that knows it’s about to die and tried to knock the hands away, but they were relentless steel bands that constricted mercilessly. Omega’s thumbs dug into his throat, pressing on his windpipe, cutting off his oxygen. Black stars exploded across his vision. He fought to stay conscious, his survival instinct simply refusing to tap out. He knew he was seconds away from terminal blackout.
“Game over, Reaper,” Omega said. “Don’t fight it, just let it happen. That’s what I’m going to tell your bitch Cara too, right while I’m fucking her to death.”
He heard her voice then, distant and muffled like he was underwater.
“Fuck this, asshole,” Cara snarled, ramming her Sig against the back of his neck and pulling the trigger.
The bullet ripped apart Omega’s throat and exited through his face, blowing off half his lower jaw. Kane felt the spatter of hot blood, then sucked in a deep breath as Omega’s fingers relinquished their hold on his throat.
Before the first shot had even finished echoing off the concrete walls, Cara followed up with a strategically-placed kill-shot, putting a round right above Omega’s ear. The assassin’s skull came apart like a hammered egg.
Kane pushed the corpse off him and looked at Cara as she stood a few yards away, smoke curling from the muzzle of her gun. He coughed and hacked, trying to ease the pain of his throttled throat. He reached down and pulled the knife out of his thigh with a grimace.
Cara holstered her Sig. “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, Reaper.”
Kane climbed to his feet. “Tell me about it.” His voice sounded raspy, just a notch or two above a barely intelligible growl. Still, he was alive. His voice might be shot for a few days, but it was better than being dead. “Thanks for saving my ass.”
She smiled, with a bit of a wicked glint. “Well, I am kind of fond of that ass.”
“I owe you one.”
Her smile widened and the wickedness increased. “Well, I know just how you can pay me back.”
“Cara, we’ve talked about this…”
“And maybe it’s time to stop talking if you know what I mean.” She gestured toward the blood-splattered corpse. “Who was that guy, anyway?”
Kane retrieved his gun and slid it back into the holster. “Omega.”
“The hitter who almost killed Reardon? That Omega?”
“That’s him.”
“Glad I smoked him.”
“You and me both.” Sirens howled in the distance. Cops summoned by the gunshots. “We need to get out of here.”
“I’ll drive,” Cara said. “You look like you just got the crap kicked out of you.”
“That would be an accurate assessment.”
“Never thought I’d see the day Reaper got his butt whipped.”
“It happens to all of us eventually.”
As they climbed into the Jeep, Cara asked, “Where to?”
Strapping on his seatbelt, Kane suddenly felt a weariness wash over him. He wanted, perhaps even needed, a respite, however brief, from the violence and savagery. He wasn’t sure it would be wise to take things all the way again with Cara, but he couldn’t think of a better person to share some downtime with. “Let’s find some dinner. I could use a cold beer right about now.”
“Looks to me like you could use something a little stronger than beer.”
“Yeah, well.” Kane grinned. “Whiskey works too.”
Cara said, “You know you’re bleeding, right?”
“So find a place that doesn’t mind a little blood.”
They drove off into the night. As they hit the city streets, Kane knew tomorrow might bring more blood and death to further scar their warrior souls, but for right now, the mission was over. They couldn’t rest—never that—but they could at least let their guns cool.
Until they had to take them out again.
Because that’s just the way it was.
Death was their life.
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Mark Allen and Brent Towns
About the Author
Mark Allen was raised by an ancient clan of ruthless ninjas and now that he has revealed this dark secret, he will most likely be dead by tomorrow for breaking the sacred oath of silence. The ninjas take this stuff very seriously.
When not practicing his shuriken-throwing techniques or browsing flea markets for a new katana, Mark writes action fiction. He prefers his pose to pack a punch, likes his heroes to sport twin Micro-Uzis a la Chuck Norris in Invasion USA, and firmly believes there is no such thing as too many headshots in a novel.
He started writing “guns ‘n’ guts” (his term for the action genre) at the not-so-tender age of 16 and soon won his first regional short story contest. His debut action novel, The Assassin’s Prayer, was optioned by Showtime for a direct-to-cable movie. When that didn’t pan out, he published the book on Amazon to great success, moving over 10,000 copies in its first year, thanks to its visceral combination of raw, redemptive drama mixed with unflinching violence.
Now, as part of the Wolfpack team, Mark Allen looks forward to bringing his bloody brand of gun-slinging, bullet-blasting mayhem to the action-reading masses.
Mark currently resides in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York with a wife who doubts his ninja skills because he’s always slicing his fingers while chopping veggies, two daughters who refuse to take tae kwon do, let alone ninjitsu, and enough firepower to ensure that he is never bothered by door-to-door salesmen.
https://wolfpackpublishing.com/mark-allen/
Look for the Next Team Reaper Novel Coming Soon!