Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,85

it’s because he wants us distracted,” he whispered harshly. “He’s setting up a trap.”

“No shit. Stop talking.” Fuck, Ricardo shouldn’t look so pale. “Do not lie down,” August added. “Give me that knife, give me those goggles, get ready to throw the rest of the tear gas.” August wasn’t positive where the garage was, but he’d been in enough luxury mansions like this one to have a decent idea. Hell, he’d owned one of them before he’d blown it up out of self-defense. “Both directions. I’m going to clear a path, and then I’m going to grab you and run like hell.” They were near the back of the house, which probably meant kitchen, which probably meant the garage was close by. Once they got there…he’d figure something out.

August put on the goggles, took the extra magazines for Ricardo’s gun, and hefted the knife in his left hand. Ricardo was sweating hard, his eyes and mouth clenched shut as he readied the first canister for release. August pressed the pad of his thumb gently between Ricardo’s eyes, smoothing the line there. “In three, two, one…”

Ricardo tossed the canister down the hall, and tear gas began to spew in a thick grey cloud. August followed it instantly, staying tight to the wall. He reached down into the gory mass that was the head of the guy he’d shot and found a communicator in his ear. He put it on, and…

“—already almost over them in vents. Just drop the grenade on them, they won’t—”

“I want Torralba alive,” Victor snapped, and it was odd, hearing his voice both somewhere in the distance ahead of him and over the com. “Find a way to separate them, or gut Morrison like a trout in front of him, I don’t care, but Torralba is mine.”

“Boss, this really isn’t the time to play favorites. We can take them out right now, no mess, no additional loss of life, if we just—”

August took out the com and directed his attention up. The ceiling was high, but now that he was listening for it, he could hear the faint shuffle of someone moving up there. Where, though…

He fired three shots into the ceiling, spaced three feet apart. The third one struck home, and before the first drop of blood hit the ground, August fired five more shots, until the drops were a gush, then ducked around the corner again as return fire crackled down the corridor. He didn’t look at Ricardo. Ricardo was still standing, which meant August needed to focus his efforts on keeping him that way, not fussing over him any longer. He threw another smoke bomb—their last, he noted—and waited for it to fill the hall before following it with a concussive grenade, then hoisting Ricardo’s arm over his shoulder again and hustling them down the hall.

Ricardo wheezed with every step, not a good sign, and he could barely take any of his own weight. After a few feet, August muttered “Fuck it” and picked him up in a fireman’s carry. He hustled down the corridor and turned where it did, following the smell of—yes, someone had been cooking dinner, they were close! He kicked the door in, and—

Bang! The first bullet hit right the wood beside his face. August dropped to one knee, turning Ricardo so that his back was broadside to the shooter. He took a bullet to the shoulder which rocked them both, but by then August had a bead on their attacker and shot him through the knee, then the throat.

Ricardo wheezed even harder, and it took August a second to realize that it was a laugh. A horrible, awful laugh, but he’d fucking take it. “D’d you just…use me…as a…shield?”

“It’s not like I’m wearing body armor,” August defended himself, forcing his legs back to standing and locking the door behind them. They were good locks, on a solid metal door—it would take a minute for someone else to get through it. Great. Now they just had to—

A whisper of movement on his left sent August diving down again, just in time to miss taking a bullet. He shuffled forward on his knees and set Ricardo down, grimacing when he saw the look of barely contained agony on the other man’s face. “Hang in there,” he said, then grabbed a shining aluminum pot from the shelf on the bottom of the kitchen island and flung it toward the man who’d just come around the corner, gun at the ready. In the time