Beyond the Breaking Point - Lori Sjoberg Page 0,30
fell open, his eyes wide with shock. Slowly, his body sagged sideways and hit the ground with a meaty thud, the rifle slipping from his grip.
Wade crossed to the man, kicked the rifle out of reach, and checked his pulse to verify he was dead. Then he looked to where the other gunshots had come from and his jaw just about hit the dirt.
“Austin?”
Incredulous, Wade gawked at his older brother, shocked to see him but grateful for the assist. His ego would rather believe that he could’ve handled those guys on his own, but in reality, the chances of all three of them making it out alive had been slim at best. Jackson and Navarre, both employees of Six Points Tactical & Security, the Flint family business, stood a few feet behind his brother, their rifles still raised and at the ready.
“How the fuck did you find me?”
“How the fuck do you think?” With a scowl on his face, Austin closed the distance between them in a dozen or so long strides. Like Jackson and Navarre, he was dressed in full camo and carried a bulging pack on his back. A rifle hung from a strap off his shoulder, while a pistol rested in a shoulder holster on his left side. His jet-black hair was buzzed close to his scalp, and the stubble of his beard was close to the same length. His angular face was a mask of surly attitude, which was pretty much standard for Austin.
More likely than not, their sister Larissa had performed her own special brand of computer jiu-jitsu to uncover his airline reservation. From there, it would have gotten much harder to hunt him down, as he’d switched to cash when he landed in Mexico City to avoid leaving a digital footprint.
Then again, it might not have been hard to track his movements. Between his build and his scars, he stood out in a crowd, but there was only so much he could do about that.
When Austin got close, he tagged Wade with a lightning-fast cross to the jaw, sending his head snapping back. “That’s for all of the nights I slept in the woods or in some shitty hotel room, when I should have been in bed with my wife. And this”—another blow, this one to the gut—“is for making Larissa cry.”
Christ, he’d almost forgotten how hard his older brother could punch. It felt like he’d been kicked by a mule. The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth, and it took a great deal of effort not to throw up.
“Enough! What the hell is wrong with you?” Hope wedged herself between the two men and glared up at Austin with her hands planted on her hips. It was almost comical—she was so much smaller than his brother—but that didn’t stop her from acting as though she were some sort of superhero.
Not that he needed the help, but he appreciated the gesture. And on some level, though he refused to acknowledge it, it kind of turned his crank.
Austin fixed his steely glare on Hope. Most people would have been intimidated by two hundred-plus pounds of pissed off ex-Marine, but she didn’t so much as flinch. “No offense, lady, but who the hell are you?”
“She’s my guide.” Wade straightened, refusing to let his expression show how much that last punch hurt. “Dr. Hope Chandler, this is my brother, Austin Flint.”
His brother cocked one eyebrow. “Doctor?”
“I was abducted by Roberto Aranza. His mother had cancer, and he needed somebody to provide her with medical care. Shortly after her death, I escaped from the compound and had the misfortune of crossing paths with your brother. If you want more details, you’ll have to ask him.” She shifted her gaze to the men standing behind Austin. “And you are?”
The tall, heavily muscled black man tipped his head in greeting. A hint of humor curved his mouth. His head was bald, his arms heavily tattooed, while his deep voice sounded smoother than velvet. “The name’s Jackson, ma’am. And this here’s Navarre.”
Unlike Jackson, Navarre was average height with a wiry build that could easily be mistaken for scrawny. In the field, he often used that misguided assumption to his advantage. A faded Miami Dolphins ball cap covered his short brown hair, while his fair skin sported a light burn. He gave a tight nod, his expression all business. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Likewise.” She gestured to Jackson’s rifle. “That was some pretty impressive shooting. What kind of rifle is that?”