June Bug by Scott Bell

Author:Scott Bell [Bell, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Abel Yeager, Yeager, Mystery, thriller, Action, suspense
Publisher: Red Adept Publishing
Published: 2020-11-10T07:00:00+00:00

I OPENED MY EYES. NAUSEA clenched my stomach, and vomit threatened to come up. Above me, a green kaleidoscope whirled. The ground seemed liquid, like a waterbed. My head throbbed as though pulsing rubber mallets thumped the inside of my temples. I had been unconscious; that much was obvious.

How long?

Gunfire nattered like angry woodpeckers, out for blood. It took a real effort to remember where I was and who was shooting at me. I couldn’t have been out long, or I would have woken up dead.

Oh, no. I rolled to my side in the nick of time, ralphing up my breakfast.

A harsh laugh froze me to the spot. Stepping from the trees, a small guy in a poorly fitted black suit held a cut-down AK-74, the commando model of the popular AK-47. He grinned, showing me bad teeth, and said something nasty in his own language. The bore of his weapon lined up with my forehead.

I tried to move. Nope. All lines between my brain and body were tangled. I managed a feeble flopping.

Four ounces of trigger pull, and I would be dead.

Crack!

A black hole appeared in the Chechen's forehead. He dropped like old laundry.

Rita rushed out of the brush, pistol in one hand. She grabbed a wad of my shirt with the other. She tugged. Her feet went out from under her, and she fell on her butt. A laugh wanted to bubble up past the queasy, spinning sensation in my guts.

“C’mon, you big ox,” she panted. “Give me a hand here, would ya?”

Bullets slapped the air over our heads. Groaning, I rolled onto all fours and baby-crawled a few feet before I could get my feet under me. Rita shoved her shoulder under my arm, and together, we stumbled deeper into the forest.

We ran maybe ten feet before—

“Rifle!” I said. "I forgot my rifle."

I turned to go back for the LaRue, and the tree next to me exploded, bark chips flying as bullets slapped it.

“Fuck the rifle,” Rita snapped.

“Fuck the rifle,” I panted. “Agreed.”

We found a deep cut leading to a creek, about four feet deep, overgrown with briars and covered by fallen limbs. Perfect shelter if you were on the run from Chechen terrorists in East Texas.

I played that back in my head: Chechen terrorists in East Texas? Un-frickin-believable.

We wriggled and grunted, sweated and cursed until we settled into our makeshift foxhole. We faced back the way we’d come, weapons ready. Goldman changed magazines, and I readied my pistol, steadying my aim across a brace of timber. I blinked sweat and blood out of my eyes, gasping hard for air. The trees wobbled in and out of focus, and my head throbbed.

“The hell happened?” I whispered.

“You got shot in the head,” Goldman muttered without looking at me. “That’s the good news and the bad.”

My hat was gone, the scalp over my right ear burned, and hot spikes of pain fired into my skull. I touched the wound gingerly and winced. Blood soaked the side of my head, wet and tacky.

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