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

I mutter.
    Plan-B I guess.
    I clear my throat, “Oh William, can you come out here please?”
    Dad steps out from the other side of the cover, AK-47 at the ready.
    The gunman is about to swing his gun towards Dad, but Dad beats him to the punch and yells something in Arabic. The man halts his aim but doesn’t lower his weapon. Dad continues on in Arabic again, this time with a little more gusto behind it. He gestures to the concrete floor as if to tell the man to put down his gun.
    Nothing happens. The gunman just stares at Dad.
    Then, it happens.
    The killer brings up his gun and fires a barrage of bullets at Dad, nearly hitting him. Thankfully, we were planning on this just in case and Dad quickly flicks off the safety and dives to the side, pulling his own trigger.
    Now, I wouldn’t recommend doing this. It’s not like in the movies where Schwarzenegger or Stallone or even Van Damme for that matter can fire a perfect burst of projectiles towards a target while they’re airborne. Those guys could probably knit a sweater and bake an apple pie in mid-air too if the director wanted it badly enough, but this is real life and is only being used as a diversion.
    I charge as Dad fires, hoping he doesn’t accidentally shoot me. I’m at a full sprint when I get a gun leveled at my head, but I’m not there when the trigger is pulled. I’ve gone into a takeout slide making a bee-line for the mercenary’s legs, like I was making a final dash for home plate. My high school coach would have been proud.
    He tries to readjust his aim, but doesn’t get the chance. I swing up and with just enough oomph, hit his gun and send it sailing out the open door. I then proceed to slam into his lower half and take him down to the ground.
    We roll a few feet where he lands on top of me and begins to try and pummel me. He lands a few really good body shots, but to no avail. What can I say? I stay in shape. I flex and take two more punches to the solar plexus, realizing that if he keeps this up, I’m going to be peeing blood for a week.
    He’s about to start on my face too which definitely CAN’T take any more abuse at this point, when a rifle stock clocks him in the temple, deflating his barrage. He rolls off me and I give him a little extra push, sending him sprawling to the hard floor.
    I stand and wince at my excessively beaten body and collect my putter. I stalk—or rather stagger—towards the recovering attacker, winding up for the best swing I can muster. I let loose, leading with the club head and thump him hard in the ribs, a sharp crack ringing out through the room. He howls in pain, breaking one for sure…maybe even two.
    He tries to stand, putting a hand on the ground for balance, but I bring down the knife edge hard, taking out his wrist with a savage hack. 100% broken. The bend in his lower arm definitely isn’t natural.
    The man wails in agony again, but this time he just kneels holding his mangled arm and slumps over to one side.
    I look up at Dad, gripping the putter tighter and tighter and ask, “Should I have yelled fore?”
    He just looks at me with obvious irritation, but gives me a little smile as a consolation prize. I can’t help it. I give him a Cheshire cat smile back and say, “Sorry, I’m just trying to be polite.” 
    Dad shakes his head, smile completely faded, and steps up to the prone man, still holding his rifle and starts rambling on in Arabic again. He’s trying to find out who sent them to kill me and collect him and why.
    “Who sent you?” Dad yells shaking his weapon at the man.
    “You will burn in the end regardless if I tell you or not,” replies the assassin, his voice dripping with contempt.
    The look of confusion on my face over his translation must be pretty noticeable because, the hired goon just looks at me and starts laughing. No, laughing isn’t the right word it’s more like a psychotic cackle, like something from a bad movie.
    I look back over at Dad and shrug. I have no idea