Blood and Sand by Matthew James Read Free Book Online Page A

anger. Pure-unadulterated-rage.
    I pull away from the soothing touch of a father and draw my most dangerous club…my putter.
    I turn to my dad and see his confused look as I bring up my club, gripping it until my fingers turn white. I remove the golf bag from my shoulder—opting for quicker footing. Dad’s just standing there waiting for me to say something. I’m sure he sees the clumpy short shafted club as a joke.
    “Steel shaft—zero flex,” I say through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to kill him. I’m going to beat the living shit out of him and get some answers.”
    I turn, but stop and look over my shoulder to my now wide eyed father, “Grab your balls and follow me. We’re finishing this.”

11
     
    “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be carrying this thing Harrison,” Dad says staring down at the Kalashnikov he now possesses. “Number one, I’m a terrible shot and number two…it’s a damned assault rifle, not the pea shooter we have back at home!”
    I slug him in the shoulder getting his attention off the weapon we just pilfered off the man I killed, “Keep the safety on and point it at the bad guy. You’re not going to need to shoot the bastard, just make him think you are.”
    “Easy for you to say,” he answers. “When he sees the two of us he’s automatically going to react like I’m the real threat. Honestly, he’s going to see your weapon of choice, laugh, and then shoot us both.”
    “Dad, calm down! He’s not going to shoot you. He might try, but I’m not gonna let him.”
    “Thanks Tiger, that’s comforting coming from a guy with only a putter in his hands,” Dad retorts.
    I laugh at Dad’s sudden mood change. Normally the guy has a bug up his butt 24/7. He generally reacts with annoyance-tinged anger, but now he’s acting like something closer to the way I would act—am acting—in a situation like this. 
    It’s gotta’ be the stress of everything going on, I think. I hope when all is said-and-done he doesn’t have a nervous breakdown or something.
    I grip the club, refocus and imagine the lashing this asshole is going to get.
    I turn to face Dad holding up my weapon of choice, “It’s all I’ll need. Let’s go.”
    In near silence, we approach the last area that we heard the third man speaking—the one giving the orders. There are a few more panels and work stations in front of a clearing, about 20 feet from the group of machines we now hide behind. This empty space holds the door in which the attackers entered—and if all goes well—our escape route.
    I put my finger to my lips and face Dad and mouth the word, “Wait.”
    I peek out from behind our hiding spot and see a man standing in the door way pistol at the ready not taking any chances. I pull back and form a horrible, but possibly successful plan.
    No AK? I think with a little more hope now.
    Tink. Tink. Tink.
    The gunman looks over to see the Titleist golf ball I just tossed to him roll to a stop a few feet from where he stands. He raises an eyebrow in confusion and brings up his gun as I step out.
    I must look ridiculous. I have my putter over my shoulder like I’m twirling an umbrella, my pant legs are hitched up around my knees like I’m wearing knickers, not to mention I’m now wearing my Dad’s cardigan too.
    The man does nothing. He sees me step out from one side of the paneling without a care in the world, like I’m strolling through a luxurious country club or something. Not that my bloodied clothes and beaten face would permit me into any of those fine establishments right now.
    I look over at him and in the most pretentious British accent I can come up with I say, “Oh, my young man, you found my ball! I was trying to play through and seem to have gotten turned around. Do you know where the Twelfth green is?”
    The killer just stares at me blankly, as confused as ever.
    Well, at least I haven’t been shot, I think.
    “English?” I ask.
    He shakes his head.
    “Great,”