Last Stand: Patriots (Book 2) by William H. Weber Read Free Book Online Page B

feet, John willed his body to move. The thud of hooves thundering closer and closer grew louder all the time. The horsemen must have had him in view because more shots rang out and slammed into the side of the house. John crashed into the wall, unable to fully stop his forward momentum, and skirted around the other side. Once there, he swung his AR up and opened fire at the nearest enemy. He was sure he’d hit him, but when he blinked, the man pulled his mount to a stop so he could fire.
    Two loud bursts echoed from somewhere over John’s shoulder and the man with the gun fell from his saddle. Looking behind him, he spotted two vehicles speeding in his direction. The one in front had its grill dented as though it had smashed through a barrier.
    Or could it have been a roadblock?
    The man driving had a mohawk and in his disoriented state, John wondered if he were dreaming that Moss, the man he’d just met, was swooping in to save his life. In the seat next to him was Sullivan. Gary was behind them, driving John’s Blazer. Hanging out the passenger window was Brandon, firing with the S&W at the other mounted men across the hood of the truck.
    Both vehicles rolled up on either side to form a protective barrier. Sullivan was out of the truck first, laying down suppressing fire. Perhaps realizing they formed too large a target, the men on horseback turned and galloped for cover.
    H ands pulled him into the Blazer. The two trucks gunned it in reverse and spun around. They weren’t out of danger yet. Rounds whizzed by as they sped away.
    John was exhausted and woozy, but not nearly enough to keep from feeling a sting of humiliation. He’d broken his own rules and been saved by the very people he’d tried to protect.
    So much for being Rambo , he thought with a healthy dose of self-deprecation.
    As the adrenalin e began to subside, the world began to swim away from him. His last memory was Brandon in the passenger seat asking him if he’d been shot. John wasn’t sure. Then everything went black.

Chapter 13
    John came to as the Blazer’s tires struggled to gain traction on a steep gravel road. Blinking hard, he took in his surroundings, aware of a dull thumping in his head. Thick forest lined the narrow path.
    Ahead of them were Moss and Sullivan. Slowly, the road leveled out and came to a checkpoint guarded by four men with an assortment of low-grade weaponry. Two had twelve-gauge shotguns, another a deer rifle and the last a Kel-Tec SU-16.
    Ahead of them, Moss pulled to a stop, lowered his window and announced their presence. Compared to John’s days in Iraq and North Africa, security here seemed lax. There were no spike strips for starters and the men at the checkpoint allowed a car to get right up before making clear who they were. This wasn’t John’s problem, he thought, feeling his old self starting to return. His only hope was that following Moss would soon lead to information he could use to find and free his loved ones before it was too late.
    When he looked down at his chest, his rig was undone and his shirt pulled open. Brandon must have been searching for wounds when he was out. It appeared that John’s only wound was a bruised ego.
    A few yards on they came to a clearing in the woods that looked more like a shanty town than it did an armed encampment. On the right were rows of older cars, from pickups to collector sports cars. Mounted on the back of one pickup was something John had only ever seen in Africa and the Middle East—twin ARs with drum magazines tied together into a single weapon. He assumed they’d also been modified to fire automatically. Which meant this group had at least one gunsmith.
    “A poor man’s technical,” John said, impressed.
    Gary leaned around from the driver’s seat. “What was that, John?”
    His breath smelled of rotting food. Another of the many drawbacks of living in a world without sanitation.
    “They have a technical. It’ s usually a pickup with a large-caliber