Page 50 of Wild Temple (Tyson Wild Thriller #84)

I sabella wasn’t one to rollover easily. She was tough as nails, and her word was her bond. She didn't spill secrets to the enemy. Death before dishonor.

JD stood on the other side of the general. A goon had a rifle to his back, and the other three lingered in the hallway.

Orlov demanded information from Isabella again, then said, “I’m going to count to three.”

“Can’t you count any higher than that?” I quipped.

The general glared at me. “I might not even count that high.”

He looked ready to pull the trigger.

I glanced at Jack.

Isabella remained silent, watching with sharp eyes.

“Three …

“Two…

Jack put his heel into the lateral side of General Orlov's knee. It popped and crackled in ways it shouldn't. The knee buckled, and Orlov crumpled.

I spun away from the barrel while grabbing it with my left hand and finishing with an uppercut.

Orlov’s head snapped back.

His flashlight fell to the floor. It was the only thing illuminating the room.

The gun went off as I stripped it from his grasp. The bullet hit the concrete wall, ricocheted across the room, and caught the goon guarding Jack in the face.

Crimson splattered.

The thug flopped to the ground, clutching his cheek that spurted blood, screaming in agony.

By that time, I had the pistol in my grasp and had aimed it at the doorway. I blasted off a shot at the thug in the doorway before he could get his weapon shouldered.

The pistol hammered against my palm, and the deafening report echoed off the concrete walls of the small room.

The goon tumbled back, spraying blood against the wall in the hallway.

JD had snatched the rifle from the goon that had been guarding him and lit up the doorway with automatic fire.

Gunsmoke hazed the room .

By my count, there were two of them left in the hallway.

Jack moved toward my side of the room, keeping his weapon trained on the doorway. Isabella hovered in the corner, making herself small.

There was a long, tense moment.

The thug with the face wound continued to writhe in agony.

Orlov began to stir on the ground.

Isabella lunged forward, drew a tactical knife from Orlov's belt, and plunged it into his heart. She wasn't playing around. After the abuse she'd suffered at his hands, I didn't blame her.

He choked and gasped as he bled out, his thoracic cavity filling the fluid.

"Orlov’s dead," I shouted to the goons cowering in the hallway. "If I were you, I'd turn around and run away. It's not worth dying.”

"Fuck you!”

A moment later, a fragmentation grenade bounced into the room. It hit the wall and rolled to my feet.

It was the kind of thing that widened all eyes in the room. We had a matter of seconds to deal with it.

I scooped the grenade up, tossed it against the wall, and banked it back into the hallway.

We all crouched and covered our ears.

KABOOM !

The blast rocked the area, clouding the hallway with bits of concrete and dust. The sharp, acrid stench filled the air, and everything was silent.

The goon with the face wound stopped moaning. A bit of smoldering shrapnel had bounced off the concrete wall and drilled into the top of his skull. Wisps of smoke poured out of his melon.

There was no way anyone in the hall could have survived that blast, but I sprang to my feet and advanced to the doorway. With caution, I angled my rifle around the corner to clear the area.

The two remaining goons lay in the hallway, torn to shreds. Appendages had been separated from bodies. The walls and floor were charred from the blast. The tinny metallic scent of blood and burned flesh lingered.

I stepped back into the room. "Is everyone okay?"

JD patted himself down, feeling for injuries. Sometimes, with the adrenaline of it all, you can't feel it. After a beat, he gave me the thumbs up.

"I'm good," Isabella said. It was the first thing she had spoken since we'd seen her. Maybe the first thing she'd spoken since her abduction.

I looked myself over and had taken a minor scrape to the shin—a bit of shrapnel had ricocheted off the concrete wall and tore a small groove in the outer part of my leg. It had barely grazed it. It stung and oozed a little blood, but I’d live.

Isabella instinctually reached to put pressure on it with her palm, stemming the flow .

Jack grabbed a knife from one of the fallen goons, cut away a piece of fabric, then handed it to Isabella. She wrapped it around my leg and tied it off. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, but enough to contain the blood flow.

I looked at Isabella and said, “Were you really going to let him shoot me?"