Jameson (In the Company of Snipers #22) - Irish Winters Page 0,47

She was all that mattered.

He’d been here before. Trapped. Outnumbered and outgunned. But he was a different man now. The tiniest smile flickered across his lips. As Walker Judge would say, he had mad ninja skills. But all Jameson really had were two ears that knew how to listen better and quicker reflexes that he’d honed to strike true. Like a pool player knew how to angle his shots for maximum results, Jameson knew how to sense and anticipate movement, adjust momentum, and counterattack. It didn’t hurt that Lucy Shade had probably told these guys that he was just some ‘blind guy.’ Big, tough guys weren’t afraid of blind guys. But they should be.

He waited for Delaney’s men behind the concrete wall to the left of the none-existent door. He was ready, had counted the three sets of heavy boots that pounded down the stairs. He knew these guys were operating with plenty of light, while he was consigned to total darkness. But they weren’t quiet, and he wasn’t stupid. He could smell them and the beer they’d been drinking. He knew precisely how close they were to breaching the already shattered doorway. A bow wave of body odor, cigarette stink, and cheap aftershave had preceded them. The closer they came, the stronger the stench. They meant to assassinate him. He meant to let them think they could.

His nostrils flared as the acrid scent of fire and ash drifted into the basement. Before this standoff, he’d heard some guy yell, “Fire!” Either one of Delaney’s men was an idiot and had started the blaze that had taken everyone outside, or someone else was on the property. Hopefully, The TEAM. It’d be a shame to die on his first day of work.

For now, Jameson stood stock-still with his body angled sideways and his head cocked. The guys outside his door would soon charge in and kill him, but not before he took out one or two of them. Three’d be better. It was the guys outside the farmhouse who were the problem. Whether he killed these goons or not, by the time the rest of Delaney’s men came running, he’d be out of ammo. So he waited and listened as those boots advanced. One cautious step after another until—

He jumped into their view and fired quick successive shots through the bullet-ridden door. Jameson heard one killer groan. To his right, a big body connected with a wet splat on what sounded like a damned hard wall. Something grated like leather against granite until it hit the floor. Relying on nothing but sheer instinct, Jameson charged through the splintered hollow core, brought his fist up, and punched the only killer standing in the throat. He’d aimed, hopefully, for the guy’s face, but blind men couldn’t be choosers. He took what he got. Number Three gurgled and went down like a bag of wet concrete mix.

By then, Jameson was sure he’d eliminated Numbers Two and Three. But Number One had climbed to his feet again and was coming up behind Jameson. He was the jerk with the shotgun. Jumping sideways to avoid what would be a life-ending shot, Jameson crouched into a squat and swept his dominant leg forward. Contact. The guy went down with a profanity laced curse. Which was all Jameson needed to know, precise location and distance. Like he’d been trained, he sent another well-placed kick. This time, he connected with the killer’s face. He heard the guy’s nose crunch and the spin as the shotgun flew. Jameson picked it out of the air on its downward arc. Spinning the butt end of the weapon into his chest, he pointed the barrel where Number One crouched. Jameson fired. The battle was won. Three assholes down. Righteous kills, all of them. Now for the others.

Quickly, he scavenged what the dead men had brought to the fight. Two pistols and a high-capacity, double-barreled, bullpup pump action, twelve-gauge shotgun. He jerked the nylon ammo bag of shotgun shells from the guy he’d killed last. Slick with blood, but still a sweet reward. When he was through, he had a total of six loaded mags for the pistols and a nearly full fourteen-round magazine for the shotgun. Backing into the nearest corner, he sank to his ass on the floor and swiftly reloaded all weapons. The shotgun would be his first line of defense. It went across his knees. The pistols and their specific mags went into a straight line he could reach without