Render - a Shadowboxer thriller chapter three

RENDER - CHAPTER THREE

 He woke up when they landed.

The hood was still on his head, but he could feel pants and a shirt on his skin, shoes on his feet.

His hands were bound in front of him, this time.

The seat was softer, leather.

“Wake up sunshine,” the same gruff voice from before yanked the hood off of his head.

Brill winced as bright sunlight burned his retinas.

It took a moment for everything to come into focus as he felt the plane turn and taxi.

The gruff voice belonged to a red headed man with a three week old beard and a spray for freckles across his weathered face. He wore clean BDU’s, but no weapons except for a knife and a baton.

Brill glanced down at his own attire.

“What party am I dressed for?”

He hadn’t worn a suit since his high school graduation and that was years ago.

Even when Simon invited him to Executive Offerings shin digs, he opted for jeans and a blazer over a tee shirt.

“A homecoming party,” the ginger grinned.

“I forgot my tie.”

“EO file on you says it’s a weapon.”

They knew his EO file. Maybe that was why he was still alive.

But an American kidnapping a former American citizen and bringing him home?

He wondered what they did to Glory, if anything.

He hoped they let her go. They were dragging him into the water to leave her on a beach, so maybe they did.

“What did you do to the girl?”

Ginger smiled again.

It was annoying as hell.

“I’ve got to hand it to you my man,” the red head kept grinning. “That was some piece of ass. We watched you in the van before you came with us. Couldn’t see much. The angle was bad. But I’ve got it saved to a disc if you want to play it back.”

Brill almost made the threat. If you hurt her, you’re dead.

But Simon taught him that if you had to make a threat, you’ve already determined your opponent is a danger and should be eliminated.

It was a shoot first, shoot often policy that saved his life and the lives of the other members of EO many times.

Before the ambush in the jungle.

There was no chance to shoot first there.

Just shoot back.

Even then, he was the only one to escape. The only one to get free from the hail of automatic weapons fire that shredded the leaves and chewed up the black African soil around them.

Glory rescued him.

Not from the actual ambush, but the aftermath.

She healed him.

“I can see that look in your eyes,” the red head said as the plane jerked to a stop. “I don’t like that look, friend. Your girl is fine. We didn’t touch her. Just you.”

Brill took a breath, but kept his gaze on the gruff man across from him.

The man held up a hand with three fingers in the air.

“Scout’s honor.”

Brill tilted his head to one side.

Simon told him once that he had shark’s eyes. Brill knew what he meant. Dark eyes, almost black, and a way of looking at someone like they were prey.

He supposed they were. He trained harder at the EO camp than anyone, trained longer.

He wanted an edge and hard work was the only way he knew how to get it.

It also taught him something.

He was good at it. Not just the training, but what they were training to do.

Kill.

He was better than most, and since he knew it, there was an air of confidence about him.

Even the red headed man could feel it, though Brill was bound by zip ties and buckled in an airplane seat.

The pilot stepped out of the cockpit and folded down the stairs from the side of the plane.

He stepped back inside and shut the door. Brill heard it lock.

The man grabbed Brill by the upper arm and helped him up from the seat.

“What’s your name?” Brill asked.

“We don’t go by names,” the man offered. “Everybody’s got a call sign.”

“Top Gun bullshit,” Brill said.

“You ain’t wrong,” the man said. “Watch your step.”

He eased Brill down the steps and led him onto the tarmac toward a waiting black Suburban.

“Any advice for the dance?” Brill asked as his captor put a hand on his head and ducked him into the back seat of the SUV.

The driver gripped the wheel and didn’t turn around, but Brill noted him watching in the rear view mirror.

“It’s not that kind of party,” the man grabbed the seat belt and leaned across to strap Brill in.

“Snug as a bug,” he grinned and stepped back.

“Thanks.”

“You can call me Bulldog. Don’t thank me. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself in to.”

Brill held up the knife he swiped from the man’s belt as he leaned over. He slit the zipties holding him.

The driver twisted around and lifted a Glock 19.

Brill darted forward, slammed the knife into the driver’s eye and caught the Glock as it fell from his twitching hands.

He swung around, thumb clicking the safety on the pistol.

A hand jammed his wrist and pressed it against the back of the seat as Bulldog pressed the barrel of a .45 into his forehead.

“Drop it! Drop it!” the ginger shouted.

Brill let the weapon fall into the floorboard.

He stared at the white finger against the trigger, waited for it to flex.

“Fuck,” Bulldog stepped back out of reach, weapon still trained on Brill. “I hate driving.”

Keep Reading Chapter Four



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