Blown Read Free Page B

efficiently deal with an opponent."
    The Italians resumed firing. Bullets ripped through the tabletop. Both men dropped to their bellies.
    "I know what it means, Delta." The deputy gave him a discerning look. "Plan?"
    "Spread out, divide their attention. And their fire power." Kaplan pointed toward where Tropical Shirt was hiding. "I'll go that way, you stay here."
    The deputy grabbed Kaplan's arm, "How accurate are you?"
    Kaplan thought about his response. "Better than most."
    "Swap firearms." The deputy held out his Glock. "Shrapnel in my shoulder left me with hand tremors. Barely pass my quals as it is and that's with no one shooting back."
    Kaplan understood and appreciated the deputy's honesty. He swapped handguns and readied himself to make the fifteen-foot dash across the unprotected space.
    When the firing slowed Kaplan said, "Go."
    The deputy raised and fired two rounds at the Italians.
    Both Italians ducked below the bar.
    Kaplan dove headfirst, tucked and rolled until he was back behind the table with Tropical Shirt.
    The deputy fired his last two rounds then ducked behind the table.
    The Italians rose up from the bar and resumed shooting, mostly in the deputy's direction.
    The deputy looked at Kaplan, picked up a chair, and waited for the signal. Kaplan nodded, rose, and fired. The deputy hurled the chair toward the firing Italians.
    The chair cleared the bar, smashed into the mirror, and then tumbled through two shelves of bottles before crashing to the floor. Kaplan heard glass break, shuffling and whispering. The room went quiet. He waited. One Italian, the one with the greasy hair, rose up from behind the bar and looked in the direction of the deputy.
    Mistake.
    Kaplan squeezed the trigger and the bullet struck the man between his dark bushy eyebrows. Blood and brain splattered on the remnants of the broken mirror. Kaplan heard the last Italian yell then stand and run toward the door. Not so fast. Kaplan squeezed off two more rounds striking the last man in the chest with both. The man fell.
    Silence.
    Kaplan looked at Tropical Shirt and the waitress, "You two stay put." They both nodded in unison.
    He stood and crouch-walked toward the bar, leading each step with the barrel of his Glock, his eyes and gun moved as one. Any threat would be met with another bullet.
    He heard rustling from patrons on the floor. "Everybody stay down," he yelled.
    He stepped over the rail separating the two levels one leg at a time. He moved to the side for a better angle before he advanced toward the Italians. The first man was lying over the rail, dead. A shot to the head had a way of adding finality to one’s life span. He rounded the open end of the bar and saw the remaining two men. The first, Greasy Hair, dead with a bullet hole in his forehead. The other was slumped against a mini-fridge behind the bar in a pool of his own blood, gun still in his hand. Shards of broken glass littered the floor.
    Kaplan stepped toward him maintaining eye contact. The eyes were the best gauges of the man's intentions. If the last Italian thug were going to make a move, he'd see it in the man's eyes first. Kaplan kept his gun aimed at the man's head.
    He stopped five feet from the Italian. "Release your weapon."
    The man didn't move.
    Kaplan pushed his gun forward as a threat. "Who do you work for?"
    Nothing.
    Kaplan stepped forward and pressed the toe of his boots against one of the man's chest wounds. "I asked you a question. You better answer or this will get a lot worse." He put more pressure against the gunshot wound.
    The Italian grimaced, his expression full of pain. "All right." Then he muttered two words, "Four eyes."
    Two words that held no meaning. "Wha—"
    Kaplan saw the skin flutter around the Italian man's eyes and then his hand moved.
    "Don't do it," Kaplan yelled.
    The bleeding man raised his gun.
    Kaplan squeezed the trigger. Two in the chest, one in the head works 100% of the time. His old Delta Force mantra.
    Kaplan