Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,84

until there was more gunfire, and by the time he heard it, it was too late.

A round hit one of his trauma plates. It was a hard punch and hurt like hell, but it didn’t actually penetrate. Just made his eyes water and fucked with his balance.

He spun around to return fire.

More gunshots.

Another punch to his chest and—

Shit.

Oh shit.

He touched his side, and his fingers came away wet. The pain hadn’t set in yet—oh, it was coming—but this was bad. Real bad.

“Fuck!” August grabbed Ricardo and hauled him around the corner. “How bad?”

Ricardo looked down. The round must’ve made it through a gap between the trauma plates. Or something. Didn’t really matter how—he’d been hit.

“Cover us,” he ground out as he fumbled with a vest pocket. He grabbed some QuikClot sponges, jammed them into the wound, biting back a shout as the pressure made the pain burn impossibly hotter. Eyes closed, he let his head fall back. “Oh fuck.”

August exchanged fire with the other men. The return fire stopped, and he grabbed Ricardo’s arm. “Come on. We gotta go.”

Ricard staggered to his feet, but the world listed, and he stumbled. His vision darkened. “August. August, listen.”

“What?”

Ricardo swallowed. “He’s got sentries all over inside and out of…out of the house. Best bet is to get into the garage. Grab a car. Drive like… Drive like hell.”

“Right.” August slung Ricardo’s arm around his shoulders, which did not help the pain at all. “Come on. I need you to help me pick out a car.”

Ricardo took a couple of steps with him, but stumbled.

“Don’t you fucking die, asshole.” August smacked his face. “You have to survive so you can tell me where that second tracker is.” He sounded indignant, but there was a hint of fear that Ricardo definitely didn’t like. A shaky don’t leave me alone.

He wanted to tell August about the second tracker.

He didn’t want to leave him alone.

But he wasn’t going to make it to that garage.

Chapter 18

“You are such a shit,” August raged, building up the fire inside of him to combat the fear. “You fucking well are going to make it to the garage, you giant fucking pain in my ass!” He was so furious he didn’t even go for the obvious pun.

“You weren’t s’posed…to hear that,” Ricardo said through gritted teeth.

“Then you shouldn’t have said it!” If Ricardo thought there was any way in hell August was going to let him die an awful death here so that August could drive off into the sunset, he had another think coming. He ducked around the wall long enough to fire off another burst—he didn’t trust the silence, these sneaky fuckers needed to be worried enough to fire back—then put the rifle down and started rummaging through Ricardo’s pockets. “Where are the grenades?”

“Smoke…here…” Ricardo patted his chest pocket.

“I’m not trying to make these assholes die of lung cancer, you—finally!” August triggered it and threw it around the corner.

“Take cover!” someone yelled. A second later—BOOM.

“Auggie,” Victor called out plaintively once the dust settled. “Was I wrong about your ability to delegate? Because this is really impressive, I’ve got to say. Who did you hire to be your muscle, Rambo?”

“Get fucked, Vic,” Ricardo grunted out before twisting and firing around the corner, even though it clearly hurt him. August pinned him back against the wall.

“Stop moving and keep a hand on this,” he snapped, pushing Ricardo’s gun down and putting his free hand on his wound. “You’re making a mess on the carpets.”

“They’re not…your carpets,” Ricardo pointed out, like he was doing August some kind of favor.

“No, they’re his, and he doesn’t deserve to have a single drop of your blood on them, much less the pint that’s leaked out so far.”

“Torralba?” Victor had finally found his voice, and it was positively dumbfounded. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You’re working with this…this dilettante?”

“You spent three hours working me over and didn’t get shit out of me, who’s the dilettante now?” August yelled. Was that a shadow coming along the corridor? Yes, it fucking well was. He took Ricardo’s gun out of his hand—it was too easy, his grip strength was failing fast—and aimed it around the corner in what he thought was probably the location of the other man’s foot. The scream told him he was right, and as the man fell, August’s second shot took him through the head.

“I overestimated your tolerance of my drugs,” Victor admitted. “But you have to admit…”

Ricardo pulled August in close. “If he’s talking,