Breakout Paul Herron (books to read in your 20s female .TXT) 📖

kill you. Either way, I need you out of action for a while. Your call.”

He hesitates, then nods.

You lift the glass to his mouth and he gulps it down. You wait around forty minutes before the drugs kick in. You thought they’d work a lot faster, but heavy users are used to the hard stuff. You just hope you’ve given him enough.

His eyes close and his head slumps forward. You slap him, but he doesn’t budge.

You check your watch. Four o’clock. Three hours left.

Time to set up the ambush.

And here I am, lying at the top of the hill, watching the lumberyard through the scope on my rifle.

Waiting.

I turn my watch around so the clock face is on the underside of my wrist. A habit from the war. You don’t want any reflections giving away your position. Plus, it makes it easier to check the time when you’re lying in wait.

It’s seven o’clock. They should be here any minute now.

In fact…

I can see lights approaching, a spectral white glow that looks like it’s floating through the trees. Then I hear the engine of a pickup truck badly in need of a tune-up.

I stretch my neck from side to side, loosening my muscles, then put my eye back to the scope. I breathe in—one, two, three, pause—then out—one, two, three. In—then out. Slowing my breathing, moving into the zone.

The truck finally heaves and skids into view, bouncing and shuddering over the dirt track, its ancient suspension barely able to keep it in a straight line.

For a moment, I think they’re going to do the job for me. My own car is parked lengthwise across the road right in front of the lumber mill, exactly where I want them to stop. But they don’t even slow down as they approach.

I track the pickup truck through the scope, focusing on the driver. It’s Tully. He’s got his head turned to the side as if he’s talking, but he glances back through the windshield and slams on the brakes just in time.

The truck locks up and skids across the dirt, starting to turn side-on.

I take the opportunity. I shift my aim, slowly, moving with the truck.

Crack!

One bullet takes out the rear tire. I shift aim again, steady my hand…

Crack!

Another bullet takes out the front tire. The truck’s still skidding, still spinning. They must have heard the shots, felt the tires blow out. I don’t move the scope to see their faces. I wait as the car spins fully around, presenting its opposite side to me.

Crack.

Crack.

Two more shots. Two more tires. I couldn’t have planned it any better.

The truck slews to a stop in a cloud of dirt about five feet from my own car. I keep my eye to the scope, waiting.

The door on the passenger side opens. Someone steps out—Wright. He tries to run. I squeeze the trigger, hear the sharp crack of the rifle. A fraction of a second later, a tiny cloud of dark mist explodes from his knee and he drops to the ground.

Now they’ll be panicking. I wonder what they’re going to do. I’ve made a wager with myself. Odds-on they try to run, even if they don’t know where the shooter is.

I’m right. Tully scrambles from the truck, trying to sprint into the trees. I track him for a long moment with the sight, letting him feel some hope—then I shoot his kneecap out from behind and he goes down.

Novak starts the truck up. He’s going to try to escape with four blown-out tires.

I shift my aim to the lumber shed, shoot the propane tanks. I raise my eye from the scope, see the fireballs roll up into the sky, followed by a thundering explosion that shakes the ground.

The vibrations continue as the huge pile of tree trunks roll and bounce down the hill, falling and sliding into the road, blocking Novak’s escape route.

He doesn’t stop. Does he think he’s going to drive over the tree trunks? Idiot. I know he’s not going to get past them, but I open up on the front of the truck, firing bursts into the radiator, the engine block. The truck skids and slides as he veers wildly. I keep firing. A moment later, the truck coughs and dies, smoke curling up into the air.

I wait. A part of me wants to open up on them, spray the whole area with bullets, rip them to shreds. But another part of me, the part that died in the living room that day, wins out. They need to suffer for what they did. No quick deaths.

Novak finally makes his move. The door swings open and he slides out. He’s on the opposite side of the truck, so I can’t get a clean shot.

I glance at the ammo rail. About fifty rounds left. I wait, but Novak stays where he is. He’s panicked, doesn’t know where to go, has no idea where I am.

Okay. Let me take it to him. I stand up with the rifle, the ammo belt dangling to my knees. I make my way down the slope. I keep the rifle raised, ready to shoot. I know the path is free of obstacles. I cleared it myself, walked up and down a few times to get the feel of it. I don’t need to look where I’m going.

I reach level ground and he still hasn’t moved. I pause, then lower myself to the dirt, the rifle to my side. I peer beneath the truck. He’s still there.

I leave the rifle on the ground, take out the Glock. (Not the one I’m going to finish them with. A second gun.) Wright is moaning in pain, writhing on the ground where he fell. I know the exact moment he becomes aware of me approaching. His moaning stops.

I ratchet the slide on the gun. The sound might as well be a gunshot, because it focuses all attention on me. I wait till Tully looks over his shoulder. I can even see Novak peering around