18. No Time

Tactics, stealth, and planning an operation required time, and Blaze had none.

And he was unarmed.

He pumped his arms and legs in a dead sprint as he ran across the dirt yard to the farmhouse, tossed the screen door out of the way, and barreled into the kitchen, throwing methodical hammer fists and uppercuts and slam kicks at anything that moved.

Overbuilt men wearing camouflage fatigues with no insignia flashed across Blaze's vision as he fought, mechanically smacking guns out of men's fists and driving palm strikes into their faces.

Blaze couldn't see Sarah.

With one slap, a handgun leaped into the air and Blaze's fingers tipped it so that the mercenary reaching for it did not catch it, but his palm also clutched air as it skittered under the cupboards.

A grab of a wrist and a wrench backward made one man scream as his arm dangled.

Another one of the goddamn mercenaries spun his body, prepping a back-roundhouse kick that would have smashed a boot to Blaze's head, but Blaze stepped in closer and grabbed the man's skull, twisting hard. Bones broke, disconnecting and slicing the cord inside.

The guy imploded straight down, collapsing into an obstacle.

Blows like hurled stones smashed Blaze's ribs and back, but they were nothing to him.

Blaze shuffled aside and reached back, grabbing another hand and gun rising toward him and flipped his hand again, torquing the guy's shoulder and shoving the barrel up as sparks and a bomb detonated from it.

Gunpowder sparks sprinkled his hand with fire.

Once the barrier of gunfire was breached, the battle would rage.

Blaze slapped the butt of the gun, and it popped out of the guy's grip. With a slap-juggle-grab, Blaze had it, and he shot the guy in the face and turned to fire again.

Blaze's only advantage was that he was singular, and the rest of them crowded around him like a circular firing squad.

But one gunshot begat another, and another, and another, and another.