Noble Beginnings: A Jack Noble Thriller (Jack Noble #1)

  Chapter 13

  Mike stood at the back of the truck, seven or eight feet away from me. His eyes were wide, his body slightly hunched over. He clenched and unclenched his fists a dozen times. A wide smile spread over his face. The man with the gun was to his left, on the shoulder of the road. The other two men moved toward the field. I expected one to stop when even with me and the other to continue behind me. Of course, these guys were amateurs, which meant anything was possible.

  I stood my ground. I wouldn’t make the first move unless forced to. Something told me that wouldn’t be an issue, though.

  The gunman shifted side to side. He was jumpy and sweat beaded on his forehead even though a nice breeze blew cool air into his face. Was this his first time pointing a gun at someone? Or the first time he did so with the intention of pulling the trigger? Either way, it concerned me. I had to take him out first.

  The heft of my Beretta pressing against my side felt reassuring. I preferred to not use it, though. Not for those guys. I only had twelve bullets left and the way this day was going, I was sure I’d need them before the sun came up.

  “Well?” Mike said.

  I said nothing, keeping my focus on him and the gunman.

  “Aw, c’mon, Jarhead,” Mike said. “Ain’t you got nothing funny to say?”

  “No,” I said. “You just said it for me.”

  “Huh?”

  His smile faded and he squinted at me. It looked like he struggled to make sense of what I said.

  The gunman didn’t. A wry smile formed on his face and his eyes shifted between me and Mike.

  “By the time you figure it out, you’ll be unconscious. So it might benefit you to concentrate on the task at hand.”

  The gunman threw his head back and laughed.

  At least one of them had a sense of humor, or maybe he had smoked enough pot that I could say anything and he would laugh. I thought about testing this theory out by throwing some nonsense at him, but it made more sense to throw a shoulder into his gut. I had two seconds, maybe three, before his senses would return and he’d take aim. Another second at the most between him aiming and pulling the trigger. Unless he really was stoned, in which case, double those times.

  The width of the truck separated Mike and the gunman. Mike stood slightly behind the bumper and the gunman near the corner.

  I lunged at the gunman. One hand aimed at this throat, the other at the barrel of the gun. I needed to disable and disarm him at the same time. I took two steps before he opened his eyes. My left fist crashed into the soft spot of his throat about the same time recognition flashed in his eyes. I grabbed the barrel of the gun and twisted it so that his wrist bent unnaturally backward.

  The gunman gasped and gargled for air. He steadied himself by placing his free arm on the lip of the truck bed.

  I struck again with my left arm, driving my elbow into his nose. I delivered a swift kick to his kneecap. He went down and let go of the shotgun. I spun and stepped back toward the road, aiming the gun at the group of men approaching me.

  Mike stood in the middle flanked by the other two men. The gunman rolled on the ground next to me, clutching his throat and sucking in whatever bits of air he squeeze into his shriveling lungs.

  “Don’t move,” I said.

  The moon glinted off the blade of the serrated edge hunting knife in Mike’s hand.

  “Drop the knife or lose your hand,” I said.

  “Screw you,” he said.

  I studied his face. His upper lip curled and his cheek quivered. He looked crazy enough to charge me with the knife extended. I had a decision to make. Take the truck and haul ass, or shoot and add to my already inflated murder count. I aimed the shotgun and fired into the air over their heads.

  The knife fell to the ground.

  I emptied the gun and moved toward the men. Mike stepped up. I drove the butt of the gun into his stomach and followed it up with a smack across his head. He fell to the ground. The other two men came at me together. I kicked the spiky haired man in the gut. He doubled over. I smashed the butt of the gun into the back of his head. The fourth man pulled a knife. I tossed the gun into the bed of the truck. The odds were already against the longhaired man.

  “I’m going to cut you, man,” he said. “Then I’m going to slice your gut open.”

  His words sounded tough. But his twitching and shaking revealed how scared he was.

  I didn’t waste any time. I took a step toward him. Blocked his swipe at me and took control of his wrist. I spun inward and drove my elbow into the bridge of his nose.

  He grunted and went limp. The knife dropped to the ground. I darted toward it and scooped it up.

  I heard a voice speak up from behind me. “You and me.”

  I spun around and saw Mike standing six feet away, knife in his hand. Blood covered his forehead and split into three lines at his eyebrows. The streams of blood poured down his face. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes. Blood smeared across his cheeks.

  “You don’t want to do this,” I said.

  “Scared?”

  “For you.”

  He laughed then spit. “You don’t know me man.”

  “Sure I do,” I said. “I know all about you. I’ve run into bitches like you every place I’ve ever been.”

  He said nothing. He stuck his arm out and lunged toward me.

  I stepped to the side and watched him slip by and fall to the ground.

  Mike got to his knees and turned as he stood. He approached again, this time slowly and cautiously.

  He brought his hands up and flipped the knife around in his hand to a tactical fighting position. The kind of position they teach in advanced combat training. Had he been a Marine or in the Army? Is that how he pegged me so easily? He stepped in and took a swipe at me.

  I countered and played defense while he attacked. He’d already taken a couple heavy blows from me. He might have a few broken ribs and a concussion. All I had to do was wear him down and then knock him out.

  I kept an eye on his friends in between his attacks. Only one stirred, but he wasn’t a threat, yet.

  “Attack me,” Mike said. “C’mon.”

  I said nothing. His attack was weak and easy to counter. He might have had training but it had either been a long time ago, or it had not been very advanced.

  He broke pattern and swung wildly, opening himself up to a counterattack. I took advantage of the opening and sliced then stabbed, first into his side and then his shoulder. I took care to avoid any major organs and arteries. Despite this guy’s overwhelming sense of asshole, I didn’t want his death hanging over me.

  The strike to his shoulder did enough damage to cause him to drop the knife.

  I kicked him from behind. He crashed head first into the truck’s liftgate. Fell to the ground. He got to his hands and knees and then, using the truck to help him, stood. He was shaky at first and slowly steadied.

  Cars had passed during the fight. A few slowed down, but none stopped to help or intervene. One of them must have notified the police, because I heard sirens approaching.

  Mike turned his head at the sound. He looked back at me and smiled.

  “What the hell are you smiling at?” I said.

  “You’re going down, Jarhead. I’m untouchable here.”

  I hiked my shoulders up an inch and let out a quick laugh before taking a step forward and whipping my right fist across his face. The thud of my fist connecting with his head coincided with the snapping sound of his jaw breaking. He fell back onto the truck. His head rolled forward. His eyes rolled backward. He collapsed on the ground in front of me.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw blue lights reflecting off the sky. My cue to leave. I cut through the field and sprinted toward the trees. I ran blind until I was hidden in the cover of the woods, and even then my pace didn’t slow down.