A Long Violent History: An Explosive Military Thriller (Frank Sherman Thrillers Book 7) by Joel Austin

Author:Joel Austin [Austin, Joel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Vinci Books
Published: 2024-11-28T00:00:00+00:00

Between the lashing rain, the turbulent wind, and his circuitous route to stay in the shadows, Frank Sherman made poor time to the beach. He walked down the main road past the lumber mill until cutting across onto the beach. Intermittent streetlights provided little visibility against the storm. The sea roared to his right, pounding and churning against the rocks.

Sherman moved slowly across the beach, cautious with the storm. He didn’t want to run into five Russians with only an eight-shot pistol and bolt action rifle he could only hope worked.

Further south, a border of spindly grass grew between the road and the ocean. Sherman used it to break apart any silhouette he made. As the road turned west towards the point and the fringe houses on the cliffs, Sherman knew he was close. There wasn’t much beach left.

Venturing out of the grass, he scanned the night horizon hoping to see something. To his left, the road disappeared after a final streetlight. Under the wavering rain-streaked glow, he saw a bicycle lying on the shoulder with no owner in sight. His eyes moved right onto the beach and in the pale-yellow light cast from that lone source, he spied shapes near the water.

One figure moved around what Sherman guessed was a boat pulled up and out of the ocean. He looked everywhere around him but did not see the other four men, which meant they were off doing whatever cruel tasks brought them to Hilt Bay as the straggler guarded their exit.

Sherman considered taking a shot with the rifle. Maybe on a clear day after seeing if the thing worked, he would have tried, but two hundred yards at night in the rain with an untested gun and who knows how old of ammunition was not worth the risk.

He dropped the heavy gun in the grass and headed west towards the surging ocean crashing down on the rocky beach. Sherman hugged the edge of the surf, letting his pants and boots get soaked. The sound and motion of the waves masked his own movement.

Two-hundred yards became one hundred, then fifty, then twenty.

Sherman turned east, following the path of the boat they had pulled up on the beach. The guard sat on the rubber bow and smoked a cigarette. His broad shoulders were outlined against the streetlight, and he wore what Sherman thought to be a dry suit like arctic divers. An assault rifle hung over his shoulder casually like he didn’t think there were any threats.

Cocky, thought Sherman.

He picked up a rock, a heavy one, the size of a softball and held it in his right hand. The left held the Colt. Either hand was good enough to shoot the guy from twenty yards.

Even distracted guards hear people sneaking up on them. A byproduct of millions of years of evolution and life in a world where we were not always at the top of the food chain. The mind processes those sounds separately as if in their own audio channel. The I’m about to get eaten core of the brain.

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