Page 222 of Micah
Boots thunder across the porch outside.
Sawyer.
Benji.
Right on time.
The front door flies open again.
“What the hell?—”
Benji doesn't finish.
He sees Sloane.
Sees the men.
Then me.
“Take the left!” Sawyer barks.
They move without another word.
We've done this before.
Different continent.
Different enemy.
Same language.
Sawyer angles left without me saying a damn thing.
Benji breaks right.
Years of training take over.
No shouting.
No confusion.
Just instinct.
One of the bastards reaches inside his jacket.
Weapon.
Sawyer is already on him.
He catches the man's wrist before steel ever clears leather, twists, and the knife clatters across the beer-slick floor.
One hard shove sends the guy crashing into an overturned table.
Benji intercepts another one swinging a pool cue.
The cue whistles through empty air before Benji catches it with both hands, rips it free, snaps it over his knee, and drives the bigger piece across the man's chest hard enough to send him stumbling backward into two of his buddies.
“Wrong fucking bar,” Benji growls.
