CANNON
SIX YEARS LATER
“COME IN. TEN fucking four, what’s your stats?”
The inobtrusive buzz sounded in the comms and I fucking went nuts.
If Jason fucking Bates died in this humid and stifling country, I’d unearth him and kill him for a second time.
My comm uselessly tucked in my ear, I called again for any sign of life, my rifle pointed towards the warehouse couple miles away.
Shit in Mexico hit the fan, the minute I realized that my target was no more than a rogue terrorist gang taking immigrants as hostages. Whilst I couldn’t call my old boss, I had resorted to asking for help from the three most annoying fuckers I hadn’t seen in years.
Jason Bates.
Fucking Blaze.
And stuck up in the ass, Holy.
“Cannon?” Holy’s voice came with a pitch and I hissed.
“Jason went in. Motherfucker hasn’t said a word since”
“I know. Blaze’s comms is dead. Seems like they knew we were coming; they’ve got jammers all over the place”
