Blood and Sand by Matthew James Read Free Book Online

to face with a man dressed in black-on-black military gear. It matches nicely with the easily recognizable soviet-made AK-47 pointing at my face. I yelp and bring up my club in a skyward arc—trying at the very least to disarm the man.
    He blocks my attack and rams the stock of the rifle into my gut, sending me to my knees. While I gasp for air and wait for death, I hear a yell and a thwack. It’s followed by a wet splat and a thump. I look up and see dad standing over the prone man with a killer glare. I also see his broken five wood, blood dripping from its face.
    It’s only when I look at the man lying on the ground behind me that I see the damage. His face is a mess of blood and gore. His nose was driven into his face with such force that it looks like a cheap B-rate Halloween mask.
    “What…happened?” I say in a shaky breath.
    Dad bends down and helps me up.
    “You went around the corner before me and evidently he didn’t see me. When he hit you I popped out and swung as hard as I could.”
    I look back down at the blood-soaked scene.
    “You obviously didn’t miss, did you?” I say.
    He gives a shoulder shrug as if to say, ‘guess not.’ Then he looks away from me almost embarrassed.
    “What?”
    He stammers and then answers, “I may or may not have closed my eyes.”
    I pale a little, but slap my dad on the shoulder.
    “Well, at least you made solid contact. But, for the future can you please keep your eyes on the target, especially when it’s holding an assault rifle?”
    We get interrupted with a shout in Arabic.
    “Where’s Ghazi?” asks a man.
    “He went around the corner a few rows over but never came back,” replies another man.  
    “Go check on him and report back to me,” orders the first man.
    Great, I think.
    I grab another club for Dad, this time a three wood and hand it to him.
    “Here,” I say. “Let’s try to be a little more careful shall we?”
    “You’re one to talk,” Dad retorts. “You blew around that corner like you were walking into the kitchen at home. There are people who want you dead and you didn’t even slow up to check to see if a man with a gun was standing there waiting for you. That’s even more reckless than you normally are.”
    Okay. He got me there. I was so focused on not dying that I almost got myself killed. Irony at its finest. If Dad hadn’t been there I’d be a corpse right now.
    “You’re right, sorry,” I apologize.
    “Son, its fine,” he says patting my shoulder. “Just please be more careful, for both our sakes.”
    I nod and head off again, slowing as I reach another turn. This one is clear and we continue on another thirty-or-so feet until a barrage of bullets rip into the metal around us and send us sprawling to the ground. Dad recovers first, getting to his feet quickly, his body obviously not as beat to hell as mine.
    Another man rounds a panel and brings his gun up-another AK-47 from the looks of it. Dad swings, misses, but stumbles right into the guy. They get tangled up long enough for me to get to my feet and bring up my iron. I swing it as hard as I can like it’s a baseball bat and smash the back of the guy’s left hand, shattering it and sending the gun flying. The attacker screams in agony, but its short lived. He bends over and feigns like he is dropping to one knee, just as his other hand brings up some kind of hand gun I didn’t see before.
    I heft the iron high over my head and bring it down, blade first, like I’m chopping wood. I connect with the back of the shooters neck, audibly breaking it, severing his spine, killing him on his feet. The man drops in a heap on top of dad and I drop the club. I look down at my hands with full comprehension that I just killed this man.
    Dad struggles out from beneath the limp body, stands and softly puts his hand on my shoulder. He speaks but I don’t really hear him. I hear something about ‘not having a choice’ and ‘he would have killed you’ but, all I feel is