Page 154 of Hurt

“Grant,” Jackson grunted, tossing him a discarded hunting rifle.

He slipped his handgun into the holster and racked the bolt on the rifle. It was a long thing, probably a .3030. The stock was still warm from the last person who held it.

The two tall men dove behind a car that had already burnt out. Heat radiated off its aluminum frame and the scent of burnt tire was pungent.

Grant steadied his rifle on the hood of the car and aimed down the sight. The first sign of movement he pulled the trigger. His shot went wide, but he managed to clip the Vega in the abdomen.

“First and second building cleared,” a voice warbled in his ear.

Those at the rear were tasked with clearing the buildings as they went past. Once the building was clear of Vega Cabal members, they could use them for cover.

Jackson reloaded his gun. “No sign of the bastards.”

Grant grunted and squeezed off another round. The rifle slammed into his shoulder, and he could already feel the ache forming. He used the rifle until it was empty, then tossed it by the burnt-out car.

“I’ll cover you,” Jackson said tersely, settling his weapon to his shoulder and nodding toward the closest alley.

Grant felt a feral sense of satisfaction as he finally pulled his knife. Theshhingsound of the blade sliding against its sheath sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. Flipping it in his hand so the blade was pointed back, he took off running.

Puffs of dirt exploded around him where bullets just missed him. Jackson’s cover was excellent, and the guns were silenced after they fired once.

He skidded into the space between the buildings and kept moving. Six Vega Cabals were clustered between the building for safety, and they didn’t expect a lone man to suddenly appear amongst them. The closest to Grant didn’t even get a chance to blink before his blade ripped across his throat.

Ducking a lead pipe aimed for his head, Grant sunk his blade into the second man’s abdomen, pushing him forward with his momentum into the next. They stumbled back in a heap of wet gasping. Without looking down, Grant swung his blade across the face of the third. Blood streaked down his arm and across his face as he cleared the alley, a swift force of razor-thin blade.

Emerging on the other side of the alley he found a large clearing where the fighting was the thickest. Roland was in the center, dodging blows and swinging his thick arms. His face was impassive as he wielded his fists like a weapon. Those rings were crimson with gore.

Elijah and Noah were embroiled off to the right of Roland. Elijah’s blades caught the light of the car fires—spinning daggers whipping through the air as he nimbly kicked and punched his way through. Neither he nor Roland carried a handgun, preferring their close quarter weapons.

At Elijah’s back was Noah. The newly appointed White Sand Mesa leader was proving himself capable. His gaudy gun was never silent. Between slapping fresh clips in, he used it as a blunt weapon.

Two Vega Cabal grunts charged Elijah when he was grappling with an attacker. Noah was there in an instant, the butt of his gun cracking against the temple of one before Noah grabbed the baseball bat from the other. He kicked the man’s knee out with an audible pop, twisting the aluminum bat out of his hands just to slam it down on the back of his neck.

Elijah took down the man he was fighting with to look up and see something beyond Noah.

“Down!” he shouted.

Without hesitation, Noah dropped to a knee. Elijah ran at him, using his hunched back as a springboard to get up over the crowd so he could let two knives fly. The stiletto blades pierced a Vega who was overpowering a Mesa member.

Elijah pulled some used blades from his closest victims and continued, keeping Noah by his side.

Something above caught Grant’s eye and he looked up from the fighting to see the tallest building in the compound. An expansive balcony with an intricate cement railing looked down over the fighting. A figure was shouting into the crown, gesticulating wildly to get his point across.

Ezra Vega.

Grant felt his blood turn cold and his fingers tighten on the hilt of his knife.

The handgun at his belt didn’t have the accuracy to take him out from this distance. To see him and not be able to touch him chafed at Grant. Lifting his knife, he charged into the fighting, cutting his way across the mob.

Roland buried his fingers in the shirt of a Vega, slamming his head forward into the man’s nose before letting him drop. Dazed, he put up no fight when Roland snapped his neck.

His hands were slick with blood and the front of his clothes were soaked with it. The exertion of fighting made his arms tremble and somewhere along the way he had picked up a cracked rib from a lead pipe and a decent sized laceration over a kidney.

Roland didn’t notice.

The world was in hyper-focus. His only thoughts were cleaving his way through whatever was in his way. Anything or anyone that stood between him and Willow was felled under his powerful strikes. The burn in his muscles only pushed him forward. Every step forward was a step closer.

Fighting shoulder to shoulder like this meant that guns were relatively useless. You were just as likely to hit an ally as an enemy. All manner of weapons made their way to the fracas—Roland had even taken a ceramic pot to the back of his shoulder at one point. Fighting like this was dirty and cruel. Falling to the ground was certain death. More than one person had been trampled.