Read Online Blood & Tacos #1 by Johnny Shaw, Matthew Funk, Gary Phillips, Christopher Blair, Cameron Ashley - Free Book Online Page B
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leave his men, and bringing Azov back alive might be the only thing that would
keep Gen. Pearce from court-martialing him on the spot.
As McCreary moved Azov through the abandoned streets, they saw only flashes of action through streets and windows. Tanks rumbled. Russian APCs sped along, surrounded by bands of jogging, terrified soldiers. None of them seemed to notice that McCreary had their beloved commander at gunpoint.
They neared McCreary's home. There was the mailbox, painted bright white. There was the same grass. The same picket fence. The same gate, the last thing McCreary had made before shipping off to North Dakota. The only thing that was missing was the American flag that always hung from a bracket off the porch.
"She'd better be alive," McCreary said.
The general had said nothing since leaving the mayor's office. In fact, nothing since McCreary had socked him. But now, the general seemed to perk up.
"Oh, she is alive, Jacob," Azov said, as he walked through the gate. "If things had gone as planned, she'd be baking bread like a good Russian wife. Waiting for her husband, me, to show up. To enjoy a good meal. Then enjoy her, afterward."
"Careful, General," McCreary said. Through the windows, McCreary could see that everything in the house had changed. Gone were the photos of his family, of Sunny's family, the oil painting of Jesus that Sunny had painted for the state fair. Instead, McCreary could make out mostly bare walls, adorned only with the occasional image of Marx, Lenin, and old Papa Joe himself.
Azov opened the front door. They walked inside. There was no smell of bread.
"Where is she?"
"In our bedroom."
McCreary responded by shoving the barrel of the Nagant between Azov's shoulderblades so hard that the general staggered toward the stairs. Up they went, one step, two, the steps creaking. In the distance, a tank fired. The house shook.
"My Svetlana!" Azov called out. "I have brought you a guest. He is… so…
very
eager to see you."
They reached the top of the stairs. Down at the end of the dimly lit hallway was the door to their bedroom. Where McCreary and Sunny had learned about the sacred covenant between man and wife.
"You'll be happy to know, she's been very resistant to my charms," Azov said, a few feet shy of the door. "It's taken much… persuasion to even get her to look at me, but never without distrust in her eyes. And I must admit that she has resisted even my more…
skilled
methods."
"Shut up," McCreary said. "Open the door."
The General obeyed.
The bedroom McCreary had shared with his wife had been stripped down to three things: a four-poster bed, a Soviet flag hanging from a six-foot staff in the corner, and Sunny herself. McCreary's wife was unconscious and pale, tied on the bed, clad only in the virginal white nightgown she'd worn on their wedding night. Her hair was a curly blonde halo around her sleeping head.
He couldn't restrain himself any longer. McCreary shoved the general aside and raced to Sunny's bedside. "Sunny! … Sunny, it's me! It's Jake!"
Sunny opened her eyes. They were sunken and tired—from what, McCreary didn't want to know—but they were the same bright blue. They lingered on his. He saw a flicker of recognition—and a flash of red in their reflection over his shoulder.
Instinct. McCreary turned and fired. Again, and again, and again. McCreary barely registered the sight of Azov, brandishing the Soviet flagstaff as a sharpened weapon. It was a sea of red—flapping fabric, and the general's blood.
Azov staggered backward. Blood poured from his surprised mouth. But somehow, the general lurched forward again. McCreary fired twice more. And again. Then, remembering that the Nagant held seven rounds, he saved the final shot for a spot right between Azov's dark, beady eyes.
Azov's dying body lurched backward, his shiny boots clattering against the hardwood floor. Back he flew against the window, and through it, shattering the glass, and tumbling
keep Gen. Pearce from court-martialing him on the spot.
As McCreary moved Azov through the abandoned streets, they saw only flashes of action through streets and windows. Tanks rumbled. Russian APCs sped along, surrounded by bands of jogging, terrified soldiers. None of them seemed to notice that McCreary had their beloved commander at gunpoint.
They neared McCreary's home. There was the mailbox, painted bright white. There was the same grass. The same picket fence. The same gate, the last thing McCreary had made before shipping off to North Dakota. The only thing that was missing was the American flag that always hung from a bracket off the porch.
"She'd better be alive," McCreary said.
The general had said nothing since leaving the mayor's office. In fact, nothing since McCreary had socked him. But now, the general seemed to perk up.
"Oh, she is alive, Jacob," Azov said, as he walked through the gate. "If things had gone as planned, she'd be baking bread like a good Russian wife. Waiting for her husband, me, to show up. To enjoy a good meal. Then enjoy her, afterward."
"Careful, General," McCreary said. Through the windows, McCreary could see that everything in the house had changed. Gone were the photos of his family, of Sunny's family, the oil painting of Jesus that Sunny had painted for the state fair. Instead, McCreary could make out mostly bare walls, adorned only with the occasional image of Marx, Lenin, and old Papa Joe himself.
Azov opened the front door. They walked inside. There was no smell of bread.
"Where is she?"
"In our bedroom."
McCreary responded by shoving the barrel of the Nagant between Azov's shoulderblades so hard that the general staggered toward the stairs. Up they went, one step, two, the steps creaking. In the distance, a tank fired. The house shook.
"My Svetlana!" Azov called out. "I have brought you a guest. He is… so…
very
eager to see you."
They reached the top of the stairs. Down at the end of the dimly lit hallway was the door to their bedroom. Where McCreary and Sunny had learned about the sacred covenant between man and wife.
"You'll be happy to know, she's been very resistant to my charms," Azov said, a few feet shy of the door. "It's taken much… persuasion to even get her to look at me, but never without distrust in her eyes. And I must admit that she has resisted even my more…
skilled
methods."
"Shut up," McCreary said. "Open the door."
The General obeyed.
The bedroom McCreary had shared with his wife had been stripped down to three things: a four-poster bed, a Soviet flag hanging from a six-foot staff in the corner, and Sunny herself. McCreary's wife was unconscious and pale, tied on the bed, clad only in the virginal white nightgown she'd worn on their wedding night. Her hair was a curly blonde halo around her sleeping head.
He couldn't restrain himself any longer. McCreary shoved the general aside and raced to Sunny's bedside. "Sunny! … Sunny, it's me! It's Jake!"
Sunny opened her eyes. They were sunken and tired—from what, McCreary didn't want to know—but they were the same bright blue. They lingered on his. He saw a flicker of recognition—and a flash of red in their reflection over his shoulder.
Instinct. McCreary turned and fired. Again, and again, and again. McCreary barely registered the sight of Azov, brandishing the Soviet flagstaff as a sharpened weapon. It was a sea of red—flapping fabric, and the general's blood.
Azov staggered backward. Blood poured from his surprised mouth. But somehow, the general lurched forward again. McCreary fired twice more. And again. Then, remembering that the Nagant held seven rounds, he saved the final shot for a spot right between Azov's dark, beady eyes.
Azov's dying body lurched backward, his shiny boots clattering against the hardwood floor. Back he flew against the window, and through it, shattering the glass, and tumbling
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