Hitman vs Hitman - L.A. Witt Page 0,89

active buttons on the remote. Every window in the garage was blown out a moment later, and all the men who’d been running and shooting were on the ground, either voluntarily or because they’d been caught in the blast. August didn’t stop to watch any more—he gunned down the path, gratified by the fact that it looked like no one was chasing them anymore.

“Well. That was a ridiculous risk you took, but it looks like when it comes to knowing people, you knew Victor way better than he knew you.” August glanced in the rearview and saw Ricardo collapsed against the seat, unconscious but still holding onto his gun. “Aaand you’re going to be so glad my sister is married to a doctor,” he said, reaching backward and awkwardly going through Ricardo’s pockets until he found the burner phone he’d seen earlier. “Keep breathing, Ricky. I’m going to yell your ears off for this bullshit, don’t think I won’t.”

You better make sure you’re there for me to yell at. Or else.

Or else what, August didn’t want to think about right now—couldn’t, not if he was going to drive straight.

He held the wheel with one hand, the phone with the other, and left all of his hope in the backseat with Ricardo’s battered, still-breathing body as they sped toward the city.

Chapter 19

“He needs a hospital.”

“We can’t take him to a hospital!” August. That was definitely August. “They’ll call the cops!”

“Okay, but if we don’t take him, we’re going to be calling a funeral home.”

Ricardo’s head was swimming. Voices faded in and out like a camera that couldn’t hold focus. Were people moving? They sounded like they were moving. Or maybe he just couldn’t hold on to any thoughts or sounds because he was too dizzy, and because the pain in his side wouldn’t quit. Especially now that someone was messing around with it. Poking. Prodding. Were they using a hot poker or something? Because that was what it fucking felt like.

He weakly tried to push them away, but his hand wouldn’t move. Fuck. Was he paralyzed?

No. No, someone had a tight grip on his wrist.

“Don’t move.” A woman’s voice. Who the fuck? “Just stay still.”

He didn’t move. Except he was moving. Wasn’t he?

Ricardo blinked his eyes into… Not into focus, but at least open. His vision was about as clear and focused as his hearing. Faces moved above him. Scenery blurred by the windows. The car windows.

The SUV. He was still in the SUV. Lying across the backseat with someone crouching over his legs and someone else positioned awkwardly between his head and the door.

Good thing this was a big fucking SUV. Trying to do this in the back of a Geo Metro or something would be bullshit.

Was that funny? Did it even make sense? Wait, what was happening?

The vehicle took a curve or something, and the woman holding Ricardo’s wrist grabbed the back of the passenger seat for balance. Someone else put a hand on Ricardo’s thigh. That seemed like it should’ve hurt. Everything else did. Christ, his whole body hurt.

And the guy who’d used Ricardo’s leg for balance was messing with his wound again, turning Ricardo’s vision red.

“Augustus, I know you don’t want the police involved…” The man was pleading now. “But I don’t have the equipment for this. We need to get him to a hospital.”

“Fuck.” August exhaled hard. “All right. All right, fine. I’ll think of something to tell them about—anyway, how much time does he have? Are the QuikClots helping at least?”

“Oh, they’re helping, but you, uh, might not want to worry about the speed limit.”

Distantly, Ricardo heard the engine whine. The feeling of being in motion intensified, and his stomach didn’t like that one bit. He swallowed. Again. Nope. Didn’t help.

“Oh shit,” the woman said. “I think he’s going to puke.”

“Put him on his side!” the other man said urgently, and suddenly there were hands all over Ricardo’s battered body, and they barely turned him before he puked. Mostly on the woman’s lap, he thought. She made a disgusted sound, but Ricardo barely heard it over his own moans as the act of vomiting intensified the pain throughout his entire body. It made him feel like puking again, but he fought it back.

“Is he okay?” August sounded frantic.

“Yes, Augustus,” the woman said dryly. “He’s got a bullet in his side and he’s about to go into shock. He’s perfect.”

“Rude.” The annoyed sigh from the driver’s seat should’ve made Ricardo laugh. He loved it when August