Apache Dawn by - (dark books to read .txt) 📖

that Denoyan Tecumseh was not about to go down without a fight.

Denny stepped back into a fighting crouch, left arm up and forward, right cocked back, the tomahawk waiting to taste flesh again. A new sense of strength flowed through his veins. He grinned at the surprised look on the Russian’s face.

“I am Shawnee!” Denny roared. He stepped forward, thrust his chest out and arms wide in a show of bravery and contempt for his enemy. See? Here I am, unarmored, unafraid, unconquered.

“I am a warrior like my fathers before me!” He lunged to the left, making the Russian dodge right, exactly where Denny wanted him.

Denny was fast, and the tomahawk flashed like lighting as it caught a stray beam of sunlight piercing the canopy above—but the Russian and his smaller knife were faster. Sparks flew as the knife glanced off the tomahawk. He had deftly blocked Denny, but only just so. Denny spun around and swung a backhanded blow to keep the Russian at a distance. Again the Russian countered, but just barely managed to block the tomahawk as it sung through the air. Denny could feel his confidence rising and launched his war dance in earnest.

Back and forth, twirl, upper cut, backhand—the tomahawk sang to Denny as it whistled through the air, coming closer and closer to its final kiss on the Russian’s neck. Again and again, the big European parried and dodged as he backpedaled and weaved to avoid Denny's sudden, furious onslaught.

When the Russian, panting with exertion in his fancy-looking ballistic armor paused to flip his knife into a reverse grip, Denny saw his chance and made to strike the man's wrist with his own blade. The Russian flinched just enough to miss the tomahawk’s bite, but that was what Denny wanted. With a flick of his own wrist, he brought the hard-as-iron hickory handle straight into the invader’s face and felt the satisfying crunch of the man's nose through the shaft.

The Russian grunted and staggered back, dark blood streaming down his face. He screamed, a low, growling primordial sound, and charged. Denny waited for him and held his ground. With his arm down there was not enough time to raise it and strike or parry, anyway. The Russian stabbed and Denny weaved, pulling his arm up and the tomahawk blade easily buried itself in the Russian's crotch.

An unearthly wail escaped the big man's face. He froze. Denny shoved him backwards and watched the arrogant bastard fall on his back in a cloud of pine needles. The wounded Russian cried out in pain as his shaking hands fumbled at his belt. He began to jabber away in Russian as Denny stood over him, tomahawk raised for the killing blow.

Denny paused, catching his own breath, and realized his ancestors must’ve experienced the same thrill, fear, and anger. He wanted to savor the moment of victory, and truth be told, wasn’t all that excited to bury the tomahawk in the Russian’s neck and—

The Russian had pulled a sidearm free and had it pointed right at Denny's chest. The dark, open-end of the barrel—looking like a cave to Denny—wavered back and forth in the Russian’s blood-slick, trembling hands. He smiled a red smile and spat something Denny thought was probably along the lines of see you in hell.

Denny sighed and closed his eyes. Deep down, he knew this was the end of his life. He had lost. His ancestors, as he had long feared throughout his life, would scorn him for wasting the gift they had bestowed upon him through countless generations of struggle and sacrifice. He accepted his fate and waited for death.

Stupid. Standing there, holding the tomahawk, and yet you let him pull a gun on you. Idiot.

A single shot rang out in the forest. He flinched, stunned he felt no pain. Sometimes that happens, I guess.

When he opened his eyes, he was really surprised. He’d fully expected to see Grandfather standing before him. All he saw was the forest: mountain pines, scrub brush, a sloping terrain, dirt, rocks, pine needles. Wait, aren’t you supposed to see your family when you die?

He looked down, expecting to be floating above his body. Instead, he saw the Russian, dead, missing half his head. Bright red blood had sprayed out all over the tree trunk next to the body. It looked like someone had splattered cherry cobbler on the ground at his feet. Denny looked at his own chest quickly, but saw only his dirty, sweat-soaked shirt. No bullet hole. Then it dawned on him that the shot he’d heard had come from the left—upslope from his position, toward the lake.

The helicopters.

He turned slowly, tomahawk still in the air, ready to strike. Facing him were three men in blood-splattered white camouflage, all with rifles trained on him. One stood in the middle, flanked by one crouched low, and the third, leaning against a tree. All three had snow-white balaclavas covering their faces. He could see no insignia.

Who the hell are these guys?

“Drop it, sir,” the tall one said in a commanding, if not unfriendly Midwestern voice. “After what you did to these Russian bastards, I'd hate to have to shoot you, too.” He could almost hear the grin in the man’s voice.

Denny lowered his arm. He suddenly felt very tired. The tomahawk felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. He loosened his grip and heard the soft thump of the blade hitting the pine needles at his feet. In the distance, he heard more helicopters. The thunderous roar echoed around him—it felt like the forest itself was vibrating.

“Who—” Denny said. He swallowed and cleared his parched throat. “Who are you?”

The tall man lowered his rifle and slung it over his shoulder before stepping forward. As he did so, the two men with him turned in opposite directions and swept the forest around them, weapons pointed toward the trees.

The tall one approached and pulled his balaclava down, revealing a hard face and bright blue eyes under a white helmet. Denny could see the man’s shoulder was stained with dried blood and there was a tear in the camo jacket.

“Captain Derek Alston, US Army.” He extended his right hand.

“Rangers!” added the kneeling soldier.

“Hooah,” grunted the third.

Denny happily shook the proffered hand and said, "My ancestors will probably roll in their graves to hear me say this but…Goddamn, I'm glad to see you.”