Page 123 of Saxon

His men don't know whether to come after me or get him out—so they just stand there, unsure.

BAM-BAM-BAM. Drop three.

JT takes off running into the woods and three of his men follow, four more scattering.

Shit.

Switch mags, noting with no small amount of worry that there are several dark red pools of blood without an attendant howling body.

I head after JT.

It's slow going because I have to keep quiet and avoid his men, who are everywhere, yelling at each other.

Sloppy. They're trained for shit—no comms, no plan.

They should be working to trap me. They've got me outnumbered, even with the ones I've immobilized. It shouldn't be hard—identify, isolate, surround.

I move through the woods, sweating and panting. "All good so far," I whisper, wanting to assure Terra. "Stay put."

"Okay." her voice is tight.

No time or mental space for anything more.

I nearly run into a group of JT's men clustered in a circle, whispering at a junction of two trails. I burst out of the trees and skid to a stop less than six feet from the group of men.

A stunned tableau.

No time. No thoughts. Only reaction.

I toss MP5 to the dirt and draw my knife, taking two running steps and launching myself into a stutter-step sidekick, my foot connecting with a ribcage. The man goes flying, ribs crunching.

It's on, then.

I spin, slice my blade along a forearm, slam the edge of my hand into his throat. Drive my knee with all my weight into the next guy's sternum. Donkey kick behind me, catch a would-be attacker in the gut.

BAM.

Lightning strikes my left thigh—a hot hammer with no pain, at first, just pure kinetic impact. My leg gives out, a hoarse grunt escaping my clenched teeth.

Fuck.

No time.

Pain later.

The shooter is behind me—I spin, grab the guy I kneed, and throw him at his friend. The gun goes off, and his body drops, forehead dripping gore.

Not my kill.

"Saxon?" Her voice is mouse-small and piano wire-taut.

Ignore. Ignore.

"Come on, motherfuckers," I snarl, hobbling in a circle.

Let myself drop to my knee, let my bad leg give out—a shot rings out and snaps through the air where my head was. I palm my pistol on the way down, plant a round in the shooter's left ribcage, low. Drop and roll, almost make my good knee, but the wounded leg won’t cooperate.

BAM.