Page 122 of Saxon

I manage to let almost five minutes elapse—I draw a bead on the lead vehicle—Jarrod is in the middle, most likely.

Start drawing in the slack on the trigger, the red dot on the lead Yukon's engine bay.

I'm a breath away from opening fire when the rearmost vehicle's rear passenger door opens and closes. Fuck—who? What?

Jarrod, circling the rear of the vehicle, phone to his ear. He's irate. Yelling. Gesturing angrily—snatches and bits float to me. Something about bad intel.

He smacks the driver's window, and it rolls down. Says something. Spins away, hand passing through his hair.

I know it's Jarrod because I fucking recognize him. When I knew him, though, he went by JT. He was a kid, a snot-nosed punk. He tried out for the assassin boot camp and washed out in the first phase, the physical fitness test. Too slow, too weak. He tried again. And again, kept washing out. Got meaner every time, until I told him to quit fucking trying. Stick to what he knew—being a grunt.

He was a douchey, entitled little prick, a rich kid like me, but instead of running away and earning his way up, he used crooked Daddy's money to buy his way into everything. Including the Cabal, with whom his father did business. Big business—coke distribution, I think, out of Jersey City. His father was enough of a name to Cabal brass that they put his son in the ranks and promised him easy promotion. Except, that only applied to the regular ranks—to make it in the elite program, you have to earn it. And he didn't.

Is that really why he hates me? Pathetic little bastard. He's still a pathetic little bastard, too. Decent height—just shy of six feet. Decent genetics—his dad cuts an imposing figure. But JT? Skinny, with a belly poking out past his suit coat. No discipline.

He's all fire and no fury—just an entitled douche given a little taste of power. The kind of fuckwad who thinks brutality and ruthlessness are all you need. No smarts, no prudence, no forethought, no patience.

He's the guy who'd be an assistant manager somewhere and lord his little bit of authority over everyone, even though he didn't do shit to earn a goddamn thing.

Fucking JT.

He pulls a silver case from his suit coat, opens it, pulls a cigarette free, and lights it with a Zippo.

Pretentious fuck.

Paces away. Puffs angrily.

Pivots. "Let's fucking go," I make out. "Fuck Jean-Paul."

I have no time to think, then, only react. Squeeze the trigger and put four rounds into the rear-most vehicle's engine.

BAMBAMBAMBAM—lead truck's engine.

BAMBAMBAMBAM—middle.

There's yelling.

Doors open, and guns fire—wildly, indiscriminately—in every direction. JT hits the dirt, hands on his head, as his own men damn near kill him.

They haven't spotted me yet, so I stay put. Draw bead on a figure with an M-16 and blast his knee out. He screams, drops his rifle, and scrabbles toward the Yukon.

Fuck, those SUV's were loaded with guys. I count…too many.

No time for fucking around—I drop as many as I can with leg or high torso shots: arms, shoulders. No such thing as a good place to get hit, but you're not likely to die as long as you stop the bleeding.

A round smacks into the tree trunk an inch from my face and sends splinters into my mouth. I throw myself to the rotting bark and wriggling bugs beneath the tree trunk, spitting splinters and wiping blood away with my sleeve.

Roll, roll, hit my feet and run into the trees. I hear shouting. Gunfire. Lucky shot, or did they spot me?

I hear voices closer, duck, drop to one knee behind a thick pine.

"Swear to god I saw him. Behind the tree here. Yeah, see? Casings, and a rifle." A shout, then. "Hey, dumbfucks! Quit shooting!"

No time for finesse. I pop out from behind the tree, spot the pair at my previous hiding place. Drop 'em both with knee-cap shots. Because at least that way, they can't chase me.

Back into the trees, circling wide toward the parking lot. JT is on his feet now, gun in hand, yelling incoherent and conflicting orders.

"Get the fucker! Find him! Get me out of here!"