The Suppressor by Erik Carter (best free novels .txt) 📗

comfortable atmosphere. He was looking due east, the least glamorous direction, where, over a short stretch of water, was the Port of Pensacola.

A massive ship—big enough to have a helipad on top—was docked, bright lights making it’s white-and-blue paint job shine out in the night. Just past the vessel was an area of shipping containers—that’s where Laswell was staring, because that was where his new Asset would be attempting to stop an influx of terrorism.

Nakiri had phoned him, told him she’d finally heard from Suppressor, that Suppressor knew where to find Burton, at the shipping containers at the Port of Pensacola, that they’d be going there to intercept him.

And now Laswell’s two Assets were out there, hidden in the industrial complex on the other side of the water.

“Oh, shit!” Nakiri’s voice came in scratchy through the phone. “Burton cocked his gun.”

Though he couldn’t see her, he knew she was perched on one of the warehouses in the distance, watching what was happening through a scope.

Laswell squinted. He still hadn’t been able to find—

There.

There they were. Two figures. Faint outlines in a dark aisle between the shipping containers. The taller of the two men was on the ground.

That would be Suppressor.

The other figure had his arm extended, pointed downward, toward Suppressor.

Laswell’s left hand clenched the fence, and his right hand smashed his cellular phone against his ear. Every bit of him was taught, muscles ready to explode.

Because the tone of Nakiri’s voice had said she was getting the itch to interfere.

To defy him.

Like she had before.

“Hold,” he said through his teeth.

“He’s stepping closer. Oh, no…”

“I don’t give a damn what Burton does,” Laswell said, pulling the phone in front of his face to give it a proper shout.

A woman passing behind him shot him a look and hurried her young boy away.

“You let this play out, Nakiri!”

She didn’t reply.

“Nakiri! I’m telling you to—”

He stopped suddenly. There had been a beep-beep in his ear.

He looked at the screen. The green multiplex LCD letters said:

CALL ENDED

“Shit!”

Chapter Seventy-Three

Silence looked up.

At the revolver.

And beyond it, Burton’s face. Not smiling for once. Grim.

Silence only then realized this was the closest he’d been to Burton since the punch to the throat.

The searing pain. The unnatural, impossible sensation that had coursed through his neck. The strange whiteness that had engulfed him. Death.

He’d accepted death.

It was about to happen again, death, once more at Burton’s hands. He’d have to accept his demise for a second time.

“There’s a lot I could do to you right now,” Burton said, “to find out why you’re here. But as you can guess, I’m running low on time. My friend will arrive any moment, and I need to explain to him why his passports are at the bottom of the bay. So we’ll make this brief.”

His finger tensed on the trigger.

Silence took a deep breath. From his stomach. A diaphragmatic breath. Just like C.C. had taught him.

He saw her face, smiling.

I love you, Cecilia.

Another deep breath.

CRACK!

Burton’s shoulder exploded.

A cloud of mist, a snake of blood, and a chunk of flesh, all back-lit by one of the dim, orange streetlights in the distance.

Silence had only a split second to consider what had happened. It was all he needed.

She wasn’t supposed to help him. She was only supposed to clean things up if he bungled.

Nakiri.

He blasted into action, not jumping to his feet but rolling straight toward Burton, a move Burton wouldn’t expect.

The Smith & Wesson Model 29 flailed in Burton’s hand as he stumbled, then the gun roared, muzzle flare blasting from the end of its barrel, strobing the surroundings with a flash of light.

Silence felt the bullet’s impact tremor through the concrete. Debris peppered his back, hot pinpricks through the thick canvas of his jacket.

He crashed through Burton’s shins, and Burton teetered over, his full frame collapsing onto Silence.

The momentum of their combined mass jolted to a sudden stop as they smashed into CG247. A hollow metallic thud rattled through the box.

Silence blinked his eyes open to find Burton’s leg splayed on top of him. He grabbed the shoe and twisted hard, wrenching with that new strength that he’d trained for.

Snap.

The foot went backward.

Burton howled.

Silence scrambled closer, grabbing Burton’s wrist below the gun. Even with a broken ankle, even with a destroyed shoulder, even with Silence torquing his arm with all he had, Burton held steady, muscles hard, quivering. Nothing but adrenaline and rage, the natural strength of a man who was born into a life of crime and violence.

Their locked arms quaked, making the metal wall of the container warble. Silence eased off, fractionally, feigning disadvantage. The Smith’s barrel shook as it drew closer. Burton’s sweaty smile became a sneering line of bared teeth.

Silence waited, then suddenly thrust forward. Explosiveness. Hard lessons learned with kettle bells and medicine balls. He smashed Burton’s wrist into the container.

The Smith dropped, hit the concrete hard, clattered to a stop. Only inches away. Burton swiped for it, and Silence hooked him around the throat, rolling them a full revolution away on the wet pavement.

There was a twitch from Burton’s hips, then a blurring knee met Silence’s chin. His teeth cracked together, and his head snapped back.

Burton glanced to the gun. Several feet away now. Turned back to Silence.

Silence tried to focus, but Burton tilted in his vision, the teeth-cracking knee shot still echoing through Burton’s body. Burton slapped Silence’s arms away, and wrapped his functioning hand around Silence’s throat while the other dangled at his side.

Silence swung at the inside of Burton’s elbow. No effect. A rock-solid pillar. Another swipe. Nothing. Burton was one powerful son of a bitch.

His eyes flicked to Burton’s bloody shoulder.

Go for the wound, Nakiri had said while they watched a tape of Brazilian underground Vale Tudo fights. Hit that weak spot. Relentlessly.

Silence swung his torso to the side, momentarily lessening the arm-pillar’s grip on his neck, then smashed his head into the mess of Burton’s shoulder.

He felt Burton’s blood on his forehead, wet and warm. The impact was hard enough to