His weapon still trained on the merc, Mason moved toward the canoe resting on the shallow shoreline, hoping to find rope.
He noticed the Ukrainian’s attention shifting past him a moment too late.
“Freeze,” said a voice to his right.
Mason closed his eyes and silently swore.
He raised his hands.
“Don’t shoot me,” he said, trying to sound nervous. After all, he was just a guy in khakis and a polo shirt, out of his depth against trained soldiers.
“Drop the gun,” said the second merc.
Mason turned to face his new foe. This one was older by ten years, his face ravaged by pockmarks. His accent suggested he, too, was Slavic. He wore the same black body armor, but had no rifle. Mason guessed they’d left him on the far side of the lot to keep an eye out for nosey neighbors. He’d heard gunshots and come running. He pointed a nine millimeter at Mason’s face.
Mason held his own weapon above his head. He waggled it, his eyes wide. “Hey, easy man. I don’t even know how to use this thing. Who are you guys?”
The kid on the ground said something, no doubt pointing out the American had known how to use his gun well enough to tag him in the chest.
Shut up, kid.
The new soldier barked something in Ukrainian and the downed kid began clambering to his feet.
“Drop it,” Pox said again, eying Mason’s waggling gun. He took a step toward him.
Too close.
Mason smiled. “No problem. Sure, man.”
He took a second to think about how his leg would react and then tossed the gun toward the solder like a spaz. The guy’s attention moved to the weapon. He couldn’t not watch it, as awkwardly as Mason had lobbed it toward him.
Mason snatched the merc’s gun from his hand. Clearly shocked, Pox lunged forward to retrieve his weapon and Mason clocked him on the side of his head with the gun. The guy’s knees buckled.
Mason felt pretty good about the entire exchange—until the bruised kid kicked out his leg.
Mason found himself falling forward just as the second solder recovered from the blow to his noggin and straightened to full height. Mason tucked his head and slammed into him, using the man’s body to catch his own balance and drive Pox against a tree.
The soldier threw back a leg for leverage.
Showoff.
Pox swung his right, rabbit-punching Mason in the kidney. The air blasted out of him.
They wrestled for control of the gun. The soldier wrapped an arm around Mason’s neck to put him in a headlock. Mason punched him in the stomach and then used both hands to keep the gun.
The kid moved in to help. Both soldiers worked at prying the gun from Mason’s hand.
Fine. Nobody gets the gun.
With a roar, Mason twisted his arm free long enough to flick his wrist and toss the gun into the river.
The two men watched it fly. The pressure on Mason’s body eased. Finding balance on his prosthesis, he kneed the smaller man in the crotch. The kid doubled over and he kneed him again, this time in the face.
Pox hung on his shoulder. He felt the man’s jaw against his collarbone.
At least I know where your nose is.
Mason back-punch him in the face and the monkey on his back fell away. Attention still on the kid, he grabbed the top of his vest and jerked him up to plant his fist on his Ukrainian nose. He needed to nullify this one so he could concentrate on one foe at a time.
The young man’s eyes rolled back into his head. Mason felt movement behind him. He spun, jerking the limp kid with him like a dancer swinging his partner.
Pox came knife-first, a large black combat blade. Mason hefted the kid in front of him. Unable to stop, Pox fell into his partner.
The Kevlar couldn’t help the kid this time.
From behind his human shield, Mason heard the first merc gasp as the knife slipped through the vest fibers and penetrated his lower abdomen.
Pox’s eyes widened. Mason reached around to chop at the hand holding the knife. He struck the wrist hard. Pox released the knife, leaving it in his partner, who raised his own hands to it as he collapsed forward. Without Mason to hold him up he fell face first.
He remained on the ground, still.
Mason took a step toward the other soldier.
“I don’t have time for this.”
The man took a fighting stance.
Come on...
They exchanged blows, a flurry of blocks and thrusts. Mason connected to the bridge of Pox’s nose. Cartilage collapsed. A second later the soldier’s fist found his jaw. Mason felt his mandible shift uncomfortably to the right. Pox took the opportunity to kick. Mason blocked with his forearm. His leg faltered as his balance shifted.
Shit.
Mason felt as if he’d been attacked on two fronts, once by the soldier, once by his own body.
Let’s even the playing field.
Mason blocked another kick and then dove forward, tackling the man to the ground.
They bounced, grappling, both rolling to gain the upper position. They hit the water. For a moment Mason had top bunk—he pressed Pox’s head into the water. Too shallow. All he did was soak the guy’s hair. The soldier bucked and they were rolling again, deeper into the river.
Weighed by his body armor, the man floundered. Mason took a breath and pulled him down. Beneath the water, they wrestled. Pox struck him in the head, tried to choke him, and strained against him to reach air. Mason took the blows and let him swing, using all his strength to hold him under.
The solder
