I have to move quickly or not at all. I have less than a second to make up my mind—do I stay hidden, or do I take this motherfucker out, risking whatever repercussions there may be from whoever else is sitting in that car?
I barely think about it. I’ve never been the type to sit on the sidelines and wait to see what happens. I’m an all or nothing guy. Leaving the camera and the rifle behind in the grass, I creep up the bank in front of me as quickly and as quietly as I can, and then I launch myself out onto the road, hands up, ready to pile drive my fists through this asshole’s head. I only need to stride about three paces before he’s right there in front of me, about my height and about my weight. He looks momentarily stunned as he whips around to face me.
I don’t give him time to lift the shining metallic object in his hand. I’m too close to punch him, so I grab hold of him by the collar and jerk him forward, bringing my head down at the same time so I can head butt him.
A head butt is like a bomb going off inside your skull. If you know how to do it right, you can cause some serious damage to a person with minimal effect to yourself. I’ve had a lot of fucking practice. The guy’s nose explodes when I hit him, blood spraying everywhere. He yelps in pain, dropping his gun, trying to stagger away from me, to hold his hands to his face, but I’m right there, moving with him, catching him square on the jaw with a powerful right hook.
“That one’s for you, shithead,” I tell him. “And this one? This one’s for your boss.” I hit him with everything I’ve got. My fist lands directly to the side of his head, just below his temple, which may or may not be a good thing. A temple shot like that can easily kill a man. He goes down, sinking to one knee, holding a hand up, as if that will be enough to ward me off. I’m more of a boxer than a UFC guy. Mauy Thai and kickboxing aren’t my wheelhouse sports, but I still use my knees when the mood takes me. I grab the back of the guy’s head, planting the back of my hand against his skull, and I lift my bent knee quickly, slamming it straight into his face. Something makes a sickening cracking sound, but I can’t tell what. He’s already a pulpy mess of swollen flesh, so I haven’t got a clue what’s actually broken and what’s just covered in his blood.
My opponent topples forward onto the dirt track, falling face first to the ground, groaning quietly. I have to say, I did think that was going to be slightly more difficult. He was full of talk; I figured he’d at least land a few decent punches before I rung his bell. He didn’t even get his hands up. Fucking pathetic. I grab his gun and make my way over to the car, where the driver’s side door is yawning open.
This is where things could get really bad for me. This is where someone I can’t see could shoot me in the face. The car’s high beams are on, blinding me, preventing me from making out anything inside the vehicle. Adrenalin is surging through my veins as I carefully head around the side of the car, hunched over, ready to stop and drop if I need to. Turns out I don’t. Ramirez’s guy was bluffing. He was alone all along? That was a ballsy fucking move. I get closer and check the back seat.
Nobody.
“Well, that was a crap shoot, huh?” I say. Ramirez’s guy doesn’t hear me, though, because he’s out cold on the ground right where I left him. I go back to him and sigh, standing over him, wondering what the fuck I should do now. If I leave him here, at some point someone will find him. The cutthroat, savage part of me thinks I should probably just kill him. Shoot him in the head with his own gun and drive his sedan out into the desert, have myself a little bonfire. But then again, I’m not the man I used to be. Killing doesn’t thrill or excite me these days. This guy’s out cold, defenseless, and yeah, my own thoughts from a moment ago replay in my head, chastising me: there really is no honor in killing a man without looking him in the eye.
Fuck.
So what, then? I bundle him up and take him back to the club compound with me? Where the fuck would we put him? The basement underneath the barn is dangerously crowded these days. Our permanent resident takes up a lot of fucking space. And Rebel’s head would probably explode if I showed up in one of Ramirez’s cars with a body in the trunk. No. That’s not going to work.
Crouching down, I grab hold of the guy by his hair and yank his head back so I can get a proper look at him. His face really is a mess. He’s going to look like shit tomorrow, that’s for sure. The guy blearily cracks an eye, consciousness fighting to return. “Morning, sailor.” I grin and wave with my free hand. “Little sleepy, are we?”
“Fuck. You,” he wheezes. I think some of his teeth might be broken.