“Would you like to know why?” Stiletto said.
Pavlovitch gave up reaching for his gun. His right arm fell limp across his chest. His gasps were getting shorter.
“Zubarev. And two others named Ravkin and Anastasia.”
Now those defiant eyes widened and he sucked air sharply.
Flame flashed from the SMG once more and that jowly face splattered into fragments of flesh and bone that peppered the floor.
PLEASE LEAVE HIM A REVIEW
Hello! My name is Buster. If you liked my human’s book, will you please leave him a review? Here is the link. Also, you can read more about Scott Stiletto in The Petrova Betrayal (click here to buy), first two chapters on the next page! Thank you… and meow!
THE PETROVA BETRAYAL
A Scott Stiletto Thriller
Chapter One
Somewhere in Iraq
THE LEFT tires almost lifted off the pavement, the right side screeching terribly, as Hardball wrenched the Jeep around a tight corner, the two men in the back holding tight to whatever grip they could find.
Scott Stiletto, his knees on the hard metal floor of the back seat, felt the wind rip at the collar of his partially-open khaki shirt as he raised his AK-47 and eased back the trigger. Flame licked from the muzzle, his salvo aimed at one of the two trucks in pursuit. Return fire bit at the Jeep. He clenched his jaw tight. None of his rounds appeared to have hit.
From behind the wheel, Hardball shouted, “Almost there!”
“Can’t this heap go faster!” Stiletto said, straining to shout over the whine of the stressed motor.
Hardball did not respond. The bald-headed mercenary, so nicknamed because the top of his head resembled the rounded tip of a full-metal-jacketed bullet, kept low with hands tight on the wheel. The street wasn’t helping, large cracks and bomb craters creating hazards equal to the automatic weapons fire behind, the wreckage of blasted buildings flashing by on either side. Any people in their way scattered. They could have had weapons of their own, but what mostly struck Stiletto were their frightened faces. They were not fighters, but innocents caught in a war not of their own making and trying desperately to survive amongst the constant threat of stray bullets. Stiletto fired again, the AK bucking against his shoulder. The windshield of the truck closest to the Jeep spider-webbed and shattered, rounds connecting with the gunner in the passenger seat and rear seat, chucks of flesh and a spattering of blood splashing the cabin but appearing not to distract the driver. Stiletto shifted his aim, the Jeep jolting on the rough pavement, and squeezed another salvo. The driver’s head snapped back, the truck veering off the road and smashing into a light pole.
One truck left.
Return fire zipped overhead. Stiletto didn’t hear it so much as feel the small shockwave of each bullet. Something chunked into the back seat, tearing open the vinyl, seat stuffing flying in Stiletto’s face as he dropped the empty mag and shoved another in place.
Beside him, Short Fuse took over firing, his AK-47 spitting rounds, hot brass landing on Stiletto’s back. Short Fuse was as good with a rifle or pistol as he was with a bomb.
Stiletto had hired both to help out with an assassination mission from the Israelis. The target: a Palestinian master mind training insurgents in Iraq. The whole plan had gone belly up quickly. Now they were on the run. And the target still breathed.
Stiletto shifted out of Short Fuse’s muzzle blast, trying to fire as the Jeep took another sharp turn, to the left this time, the tires screaming again. He would have complained except that turn meant the landing zone was only a few blocks away.
Both AK-47s spat flame, rounds striking the hood of the truck, gunmen leaning out the windows to fire back. Stiletto tried to target one of those gunners, but his shots went wide as the Jeep hit another bump. He aimed instead for the front tires, shouting for Short Fuse to do the same. Presently one of the front tires popped, the truck swerving wildly left-and-right, and the gunners were more interested in hanging on than fighting. Short Fuse faced forward, Stiletto continuing to cover their rear, as Hardball kept the accelerator floored.
Stiletto looked ahead. The bombed-out warehouse they’d used as a hide site grew in the distance, Stiletto very happy to see the exposed steel beams where walls had once stood. Almost there indeed. He looked skyward. No sign of the pick-up chopper.
Stiletto stayed low and hauled a satellite phone from under his shirt. “Where are you?”
“Ten minutes out,” replied the pilot, his voice almost crystal clear over the handset.
“Copy. We’re at the extraction point.”
Hardball brought the Jeep to a stop near the open front of the warehouse. The trio hopped out, dragging equipment bags with them. The pursuing gunners had no vehicle, but they still had feet. Four gunners ran toward them.
“Inside, on the roof,” Stiletto ordered, Hardball and Short Fuse double-timing into the building. They pounded up a set of steel stairs three floors up to the roof.
Most of the roof remained intact. The chopper couldn’t land, but the pilot planned to get low enough for the team to climb aboard via rope ladder. Now that they were exposed and on the run, their clandestine escape was anything but.
Hopefully, this time luck was smiling on them.
And then Stiletto reminded himself that he didn’t believe in luck. The only thing that would get them out of this was skill and the ability to plan on the fly.
In the event of an attack, Stiletto and his men had arranged piles of concrete in various places throughout the warehouse and on the roof to use as cover. They ran to those spots now, Stiletto and Hardball choosing locations close to the roof’s edge while Short Fuse found a spot covering the stairwell opening they had passed through.
Stiletto jammed a fresh magazine into his AK-47 as he took in the sight around him. A lot of the city was rebuilding, but most of the structures remained damaged, crumbling from lack of attention and continued fighting.
“There they are,” Hardball said. Stiletto looked down at the street. The four surviving gunners from the second truck were spreading out on either side of the street.
“What are they waiting for?” Stiletto said.
The wind picked up, cooling the sweat on Stiletto’s neck, carrying with it a distant rumble.
Hardball cursed.
Around the corner a block way turned an armored truck with a cannon on the roof.
Hardball said, “Twenty-millimeter by the looks of it.”
“They’ll knock this building down like a house of cards.”
“It’s a good day to die,” Hardball said. The sky was clear and the sun burned bright; the empty desert in the far distance looked majestic.
But Scott Stiletto had no intention of going to the hereafter this day.
“You can die here if you want,” Stiletto said, rising and heading for the stairwell. He yelled for Short Fuse to follow. The stocky bomb expert didn’t argue and followed closely on Stiletto’s heels.
They were halfway down the stairwell when the twenty-millimeter cannon launched its first shell. The building shook violently, the explosion crumbling what remained of an upper wall and sending chunks of concrete debris flying everywhere. Stiletto stumbled and fell down the stairs, the hard metal tearing at his clothes and cutting open exposed skin, and crashed to the ground. The stock of the AK-47 slammed hard into his belly as he fell. Short Fuse grabbed onto the railing to remain upright. Gasping hard, Stiletto fought to rise. He couldn’t hear. Everything hurt and bloody patches now dotted his clothes top-to-bottom. Through gaps in the wall ahead, he saw smoke curling from the muzzle of the cannon, and the four troops primed for an assault.