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The injured mercenary did nothing as Sarah beckoned Brian to the upturned Jeep. He unbuckled the man’s seatbelt, yanking him onto the dirt and gravel. The mercenary flopped around like a rag doll while he was moved. He distractedly stared up at the sky as he lay silently next to his decimated car.
John checked the minivan driver’s vital signs, discovering that he was still barely alive. He had a weak, fading pulse.
Overwhelming dysphoria played across Michael’s face. He crouched down in front of the wounded mother and handed the child to her. She didn’t react. The shock from the accident had made her inert. Their eyes met, and Michael spoke.
“She’s dead,” he told her with empathy and remorse.
The woman was too catatonic to comprehend this. She sat on the ground motionlessly with a blank look on her face, her lifeless child resting in her arms.
“I’m gonna make sure that motherfucker gets what he deserves,” Michael assured her, venom maliciously saturating his tone. His eyes penetrated her own. He wanted her to know that she would get some semblance of justice through his sadistic vengeance.
Michael stood up and briskly prowled over to the injured killer, exuding power. He walked like a military commander who was about to dole out harsh punishment.
“Motherfucker!” he bellowed, launching into an assault before he reached the terrified mercenary. He extended his right arm as he jumped toward his enemy, his fist rapidly flying through the air.
“You killed a fucking child!” Michael screamed furiously in between blows.
After leaping into his first hit and landing awkwardly on his target, he rained a blur of heavy strikes down on the man. He poured outrage into his attack. The wind got knocked out of the mercenary when Michael’s left elbow unintentionally sunk into his solar plexus. He could only wheeze for a millisecond before a clenched fist sailed into his cheek. A deep gash opened, blood oozing from the fissure in his skin. The criminal sunk farther into a daze as he was mercilessly pounded with hammering punches.
Straddling his opponent, seething ire blinded Michael’s vindictive mind. He felt like a boiling sea of fire that was engulfing the earth. His white-hot flames drowned everything around him in the blistering, skin peeling agony of torturous death.
Michael laid a flurry of destructive hits on the mercenary’s face, pounding it in like a watermelon being smashed until it explodes. Anger sucked him in like an addiction, increasing his indignant desires. His partners gathered around him, transfixed by his spell of fury.
“I’m getting a baseball bat,” he said, standing up and striding over to Bill’s trunk. His prey lay on the ground, not moving and barely conscious. Blood that splattered his face in disjointed drops shimmered in the blazing afternoon sunlight. The countless perforations were deep and jagged, warm crimson seeping through the edges.
Right before Michael walked past Bill, he heard the unmistakable sound of a small calibre gunshot. He stopped in his tracks. Bill rushed toward him with his eyes wide in shock, reaching his hand inside his suit jacket.