Page 8 of The Games We Play

I can’t let another president die on my watch.

“What the fuck?” he yells.

I drop to the ground and start firing beneath the van, taking out legs, ankles, anything. Saint is firing from behind his bike, his aim deadly accurate. I see men dropping as Switch takes them out from above. A bullet catches Saint and he’s thrown to the ground as blood stains his shirt. He’s trying to reload, but one of the men approaches him, weapon drawn.

Saint’s a sitting duck.

Panic can come later. I jump to my feet.

“Niro,” I yell. “Take out the ones I grounded. King, give me cover. I’m gonna get Saint.”

King slams his hand against my shoulder. “You’re not going out there.”

“I’m also not letting him die.” Because I let that happen once before. Tweedledee creeps towards Saint, who’s crawled behind a large rock. “Just fucking cover me.”

“Shit,” King curses but complies. Bullets fly past me. I pray his aim stays true as I duck and run until I get to Saint, who’s struggling. I fire twice over the rock. Warning shots. Then I duck back down and reload Saint’s gun for him.

“Should have stayed where you were. Fuck,” Saint curses.

“What would Jesus do?” I ask with a grin.

“Pretty sure he wouldn’t reload a Ruger GP100 with one hand.”

There’s yelling; a Midwest accent. Then Tweedledee looms over us. I fire four shots in quick succession, and his chest and face explode.

“Nice one,” Switch says in my ear before he takes out the wheels on the right-hand side of their vehicle.

And suddenly, there’s only one left, and he’s running into the woods.

I stand and offer Saint a hand to help him get to his feet. “How bad is it?”

He looks down at his bloody arm. “Nicked me, I think. But the blood made everything slippery, and I’d not taped the handle of this yet.” He tilts his Ruger from left to right.

Not something the average person thinks about, how to handle a gun when it’s wet or there’s blood on it. But you’ll rarely find a vet who doesn’t.

“Fuckers,” King shouts as he stands.

I tug out my phone. “Track, can you come out with the tow truck and bring two prospects and a full kit?” The full kit tells him there’ll be body cleanup. Shovels. Tarps.

“Sure thing. Just tell me where.”

I give him the details. There are six bodies on the ground.

“There’s still a man in the trees. Don’t lose focus. Switch, Halo, keep providing cover.”

King walks to their van. “Empty,” he shouts after looking in the back. “They never intended to pay for this shit.”

“I got Track coming out. We wrap and dump the bodies—shallow grave shit in the woods, stick the bikes in the back of the van, and then tow it. The garage can spray it, change the plates, then sell the bikes and van on.”

“Not the cash everyone was banking on,” Niro says. “Our van’s got a few holes. Our load is fine though.”

King tugs at his hair. “I’ll find a new channel.”

I glance over at Tweedle-Dee. “You hear that guy? Not Russian.”

King shrugs. “They’ve got allies here.”

Something skitters down my spine. “Nah. I feel like it’s ... I don’t know. Shit. Like, we’ve assumed the Russian accent implies Russian sympathies. But what if they are closer to home?”