Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,81
tires in the same moment Ricardo rolled on the hard ground. He grunted—he was too old for this shit—but he recovered and dove into one of the irrigation ditches running parallel to the driveway.
There were shouts now, and someone fired at the van. Ricardo lifted his head, still wincing from his fall—sentries were hurrying out of the house toward the speeding van.
He took the remote out of his pocket and waited, thumb over the button. It was tempting to press it now, but no, he needed to wait. Just a few seconds… Just a couple more…
The van fishtailed a little, then veered and slammed into the front of the house. Immediately, the sentries were closing in, guns upraised. Someone reached for the driver’s side door.
Ricardo jabbed the button.
Instantly, the van exploded into a fireball.
He didn’t wait to see if there were survivors. They were all close enough that if the blast didn’t kill them, it had absolutely knocked them out of commission. For how long? Hard to say.
He ran along the lip of the irrigation ditch, pistol in one hand and remote in the other, his head on a swivel. More men were pouring out of the house to investigate the commotion, but they were fixated on the explosion and their wounded or killed buddies. When they started looking around, Ricardo punched the second button.
The second explosion probably didn’t kill as many, but it definitely stunned or distracted them. At the very least, they’d be seeing spots and hearing next to nothing, so he seized the opportunity to sprint around the side of the house.
Out of sight of the men who might still be standing, he ducked into an alcove and glanced around for cameras. He didn’t see any, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. He couldn’t stay here long. Not even to catch his breath.
He tucked the remote into a pocket of his tactical vest since he didn’t need it anymore. It occurred to him that August would be insufferable about him being the one dressed as Tactical Timmy this time, but he wasn’t going for stealth or subtlety. He needed everything the tactical gear had to offer, and if August was teasing him about it, then it meant Ricardo had succeeded in getting him out alive. He could live with that.
He checked the burner. The blue dot hadn’t moved. Hopefully that didn’t mean—
No. Don’t think like that.
August is alive until proven otherwise.
Cold sweat trickled down his spine. His body ached and throbbed from dropping out of the van, but he ignored it. Gritting his teeth, he continued along the wall, glancing over his shoulder every few steps in case a hostile was closing in on him.
He hated shit like this. Always had. There was a reason he’d always been happier as a sniper than being on an extraction team. The enemy had the home turf advantage and there were just too many ways things could go wrong.
He decided right here and now that being a one-man extraction team could go straight to hell.
But no one else was getting August out, and Ricardo wouldn’t have waited for them anyway. He wasn’t leaving here without August, and with any luck, he’d get to use that spetsnaz dude’s knife to show that son of a bitch Victor a few of his own insides.
Lay a hand on August, and I will choke you with your testicles.
If anyone gets to kill him, it’s me, fucker.
Some activity up ahead raised the hair on his neck. Voices. Footsteps.
“Fan the fuck out,” Victor was shouting. “There has to be someone out there. I don’t buy that this was a goddamned suicide bomber!”
There were some murmurs of acknowledgement, followed by rapid footsteps. Men carrying rifles jogged out toward the vineyards.
And someone was coming this way.
Ricardo pressed himself up against the wall behind an outcropping. Holding his breath, he listened.
One set of footsteps. No others coming this direction. Not yet.
As soon as the man passed him, Ricardo made his move: he clapped a hand around the man’s mouth and jammed a pistol into his ribs.
“Don’t make a sound,” he hissed. “You hear me?”
His hostage nodded.
“Do I sound like I’m serious? Because I’m serious.”
Another nod.
“Good.” Ricardo jabbed the gun harder against the man’s ribs. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You listening? Good. You’re going to make your round. And when you come back to the back of the house, you’re going to leave the back door unlocked. Got it?”
The man hesitated.
Ricardo tucked his gun into his waistband