C. Box - Force of Nature

“They’re just standing there,” Haley said to Nate. “Nemecek turned and said something to the man with the gun and he lowered it. I think Nemecek recognizes me.”

“How close are they?”

“A hundred feet, maybe less.”

“He’s confused for a second,” Nate said. “He wasn’t expecting you.”

“Now he’s turning back around toward me, staring. Nate…” The fear in her voice was palpable.

Nate said, “Floor it.”

The SUV came fast, Joe thought. Too fast. But then the motor roared and the Tahoe rocked and accelerated and he heard Hinkle gasp behind him.

It happened in an instant. The man in black with the rifle shouted and leaped to the side, in Joe and Hinkle’s direction. Nemecek jumped back the other way and flattened himself against the first trailer. But the man in the desert camo was caught in the middle and hit solid and tossed over the hood and roof of the Tahoe with a sickening thump.

Hinkle said, “What the fuck just happened?”

“Got one!” Haley shouted, hitting the brakes before she crashed head-on into the front of the second trailer.

Before they’d completely stopped, Nate reached up for the passenger door handle and launched himself outside. He hit the turf hard on his injured shoulder, rolled, and staggered to his feet.

Yarak.

The man in black who’d dived away scrambled to his feet a few yards away, his face and hands muddy, the rifle in his grip. Nate shot him in the neck, practically decapitating the body before it hit the ground.

Nate wheeled on his heels, cocking the hammer back with his left thumb in the same movement, and finished off the injured operative in the grass.

Then he turned on Nemecek, who was still against his trailer but was reaching behind his back-likely for his. 45 Colt semiauto. Nate could see the impression of body armor under Nemecek’s sweater, but it didn’t matter. The. 500 exploded twice. The first shot shattered Nemecek’s right shoulder and painted the trailer behind him with a crazy starburst of blood, and the second bullet hit Nemecek square in his upper-left thigh, annihilating the bones and dropping him like a bag of sand.

Nate caught a glimpse of Haley as she bailed out of the Tahoe with her rifle. He was proud of her, and his blood was up. He loped across the grass, found Nemecek’s. 45 in the tall grass, and tossed it away behind him. He reached down and grasped Nemecek’s collar and pulled him away from the trailer so he was prevented from rolling under it, then dropped both of his knees on Nemecek’s chest and shoved the muzzle of his revolver under his old commander’s chin.

“Before you die,” Nate seethed, bending down so his eyes were six inches from Nemecek’s, “I need some answers.”

Joe had seen it all, and was stunned by the speed and violence of what had taken place in front of him. He stumbled and nearly lost his footing in the shallow river as Hinkle shoved him across, running now, but maintaining contact with the two weapons as they splashed across.

The woman who’d emerged from the Tahoe, the woman who’d run over the man in desert camo and scattered the others, stood with her back to them, cradling a carbine, looking at Nate hunched over Nemecek near the trailer. She was young but clearly capable, and she looked over her shoulder as Hinkle cleared one of the Glocks and aimed it over Joe’s shoulder at her-the gun inches from Joe’s ear-and shouted, “Hey!”

She hesitated when she saw the two red uniform shirts, didn’t raise her rifle, and Hinkle’s Glock snapped three concussive shots and she went down. Joe instantly lost hearing in his right ear, and it was replaced by a dull roar.

At the sound of the shout and the shots, Nate looked up from where he’d pinned Nemecek to the ground. His eyes darted to the woman on the ground and then up to Joe and Hinkle. Joe had never seen such a murderous look in any man’s face in his life.

“Get off of him!” Hinkle shouted to Nate. “I’ve got your buddy here.”

Nate didn’t move. His expression was ferocious and fixed on Joe.

No, Joe thought. Not at him. But at Hinkle behind him, who peered out at Nate over Joe’s right shoulder. Hinkle aimed the Glock at Nate down his extended right arm, which rested on Joe’s shoulder. The other weapon was still in the small of Joe’s back.

Joe found himself straining hard against the cuffs, as if trying to pull them apart. Because Hinkle hadn’t closed them hard, there was some play. The cuff on his right hand had slipped free almost to mid-thumb, and the steel bit hard. But he didn’t know how he could possibly shed one without breaking bones in his hand. The pain was searing.

Joe willed Nate to look at him, to look into his eyes…

Nate shifted his glare from the shooter holding Joe-the man who’d shot Haley-to Joe. His friend’s face was white with pain. Had he been hit?

Then he saw Joe relax slightly. He was trying to get his attention and tell him something without speaking. There was blood on his right ear.

Joe deliberately looked down at the top of his boots. Then slowly back up again.

Nate understood. Joe was going down.

Joe saw the look of recognition in Nate’s face and suddenly buckled his knees. As he dived forward, he bent his head down and set his shoulders for the fall.

There were three nearly simultaneous explosions, and Joe hit the ground so hard he was able to use the force of his body weight to wrench his hands apart.

Behind him, Hinkle’s body was thrown into the river from the impact of a. 50 caliber round plowing through his chest and out his back. But his last reaction was to fire both pistols. The one aimed at Joe had hit somewhere in the mud. Nate was hit, and it rolled him off Nemecek.

Joe writhed in the grass and dirt. White spangles exploded in front of his eyes from pain. Although he’d been trying to free his right hand, it was his left that had somehow been wrenched through the steel claw of the cuffs from the fall, breaking bones along the way. The pain in his left hand was sharp and awful and made him gasp for air. His injured hand felt like a boiling needle-filled balloon on the end of his arm.

He wasn’t sure if he blacked out for a moment, but when he opened his eyes he could see, at ground level, John Nemecek crawling through the grass, using his left hand and right leg. Nemecek’s face was a mask of anger and pain.

Joe raised his head slightly. Nemecek was going for the semiautomatic rifle dropped by the man in all black before Nate killed him.

Behind Nemecek, Nate lay on his side, his eyes open. He looked conscious.

Joe grunted and rolled to his hands and knees. His left hand was white and strangely elongated. The slightest pressure on it hurt like nothing Joe could recall. He looked around for a weapon. Hinkle had dropped two somewhere.

But when he looked over his shoulder, Nemecek was a few feet away from the rifle.

With his good ear, Joe heard Nemecek say, “Five shots, Romanowski. I counted.”

There was a dull black glint in the grass, and Joe closed his right hand around the grip of one of the Glocks. He rose up on his knees, swung around, and aimed it at Nemecek as he crawled.

Joe was a notoriously bad shot with a handgun. He qualified annually by the grace of God and a forgiving firearms instructor. He wished he had his shotgun, but he didn’t, and he croaked, “Freeze where you are, Nemecek.” His own voice sounded hollow and tinny to him.

Nemecek paused and looked up with contempt. His shoulder and leg were a bloody mess, and his face was pale and white. He was bleeding out and knew it. And Joe apparently didn’t scare him.

Like a wounded animal, Nemecek grimaced and crawled toward the rifle. As he reached for it, Joe started firing. Every third or fourth shot, it seemed, hit home. The impact rolled Nemecek to the side and when he tried to scramble back to his knees, he’d go down again. Joe didn’t stop squeezing the trigger until the slide kicked back and locked. Fourteen rounds. He’d emptied the magazine. Spent shells littered the ground near his knees.