Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“What’s your name,” Gage asked as he drew closer.
He could tell the kid was tall, but underweight, by the way his breaths hit his forehead, and the sound of his light gait.
“Ben,” he answered, still looking scared.
“Your name,” Gage stressed.
“Ben J. Fischer.”
“Toss your weapon, Ben, get behind me, and stay down,” Gage said. “My brothers are not finished.”
“Who are you?” the elder asked.
There was only one name Gage could think of giving them.
“We’re the help you prayed for.”
“God bless you,” a woman whispered behind him.
He could tell by the way she talked that her lip was split badly.
He tore a piece of cloth from his coat, knelt, and touched it gently to her mouth.
“God bless you too,” he said.
“Heads-up, gentlemen,” Spectre said in their comms. “Here comes their reinforcements.”
During the flight, Intel had prepped them for The Brotherhood’s response to the attack. The incoming surge was estimated at twenty-five to thirty men, heavily armed but untrained.
“Orders stand.” Corvo’s voice was cold and void of compassion. “Total elimination.”
Gage listened to the loud trucks barreling toward them, less than a quarter mile out.
“Let’s show these motherfuckers what true brotherhood looks like,” Scar said in their comms.
Gage never thought he’d smile in the midst of a war zone…but he did.
White Ravens
Scar
They reset and took up their secondary point positions near the center of the small village.
Scar could see Gage now, and it gave him a rush of steadiness, as he hovered protectively in front of the hostages.
Men leapt from the vehicles before they even came to a full stop.
They had their rifles raised, fingers twitching near the triggers.
They didn’t do a perimeter sweep, and no one was coordinating spacing. Their strategy was just uncertainty and adrenaline.
Fuckin’ amateurs.
Scar stayed on post, ten yards from the hostages’ as their second line of defense. Gage was their last.
He also kept an eye on his brothers, though he knew they wouldn’t need his help.
Valor cleared the tree line, appearing as if the ground itself rose up to fight. Zorion’s arrows hissed through humid air, dropping two men who’d taken aim at his partner.
Another arrow burrowed into the ground and released a flash bang that blinded the remaining shooter long enough for Valor to cross and drop him with one vicious slash across his throat with his three-inch attached claws.
Several guards turned in Valor’s direction and began raining down suppression fire, making his dive for cover.
An arrow shot into the side of the jeep detonated a magnetic surge strong enough to rip the rifles from the guard’s hands and slam them against the metal shell.
Stunned and unarmed, the cowards tried to run, but they didn’t get far.
The Browns, camouflaged by the church’s wooden structure, emerged when the guards tried to use it for cover.
Mirage’s blades flew in pairs and groups of four, while Grace fired his Desert Eagles in the opposite direction.
Men barked ineffective orders, cursed, and scattered, but none would escape.
The church’s doors were pushed open, and Ex and Meridian walked out, the fog bleeding backward as they crossed the unpaved road.
The men saw them, panicked, and stumbled. Two of them drew their handguns and fired wildly.
Meridian dropped to a knee and threw up one side of his coat in a veil of black armor. Ex spun at the same time and crowded into Meridian’s chest, aligning their bodies like interlocking puzzle pieces.
Their faces were inches apart, eye to eye. Without looking away from his partner, Ex drew his .45, raised his arm along the seam of Meridian’s coat, and fired six shots.
The three guards each took two hits center mass.
Meridian began firing and didn’t stop until his clip was empty, then reloaded in a blur of steel.
The men who were still alive dove for cover.
His brothers didn’t stop until no one was left breathing.
Zorion walked out of the tree line, dragging two limp bodies who thought the forest would shield them.
Meridian scanned the battlefield, counting the bodies with the casualness of counting loose change.
Scar stared into the unseeing eyes of dead men and felt nothing, he wouldn’t mourn monsters who targeted the weak.
Meridian went toward the hostages, who all cowered away from him.
“It’s okay,” Gage said in a low tone. “I know he looks scary, but he’s here to defend you.”
Meridian was surveying the huddled group. No sympathy or softness in gaze, just assessment.
He stopped, his dark glare locking on a man cowering behind Gage. He wore dingy green cargo pants, a tattered black T-shirt, and combat boots. He had a sweaty, blood-splattered scarf over his face that left only his red-rimmed eyes visible.
Meridian fisted his collar and flung him backward as if he weighed nothing.
He skidded across the dirt before he scrambled to his knees, sobbing and shaking like a leaf. The guy raised his hand and steepled them together as if he were facing the devil himself and praying that God might save him.