The Uvalde Raider by Ben English (great books for teens TXT) 📕

ties, had rushed in from the side and interposed himself between Micah and the pistol in Mustafa’s right hand. Neither of the two protagonists had seen him move, having been completely absorbed in the tunnel vision created by the threat of the other.

The sound of the nine-millimeter exploded again in the confines of the room, followed immediately by two more quick, panicky shots as Max’s body slammed into both the terrorist and the pistol he was holding. The two interlocked men hit the open-door frame and bounced back inside together. Micah, still focused on the threat, grabbed at the Smith & Wesson with both hands and forced it up and away as Grephardt crumpled to the floor at their feet.

Recovering from the suddenness of his evolving situation, the terrorist fought savagely to maintain control of the weapon still clenched in his right hand. The muzzle pointed skyward as the two men shoved, grappled, elbowed and swore at each other in a primeval fury driven by desperation. The trooper could hear the Lebanese screaming something unintelligible in Arabic into his ear, and he could feel as well as smell the hot, stinking breath and spittle that accompanied it.

Realizing quickly the longer the fight lasted; the more likely the younger, more physically fit Mustafa would gain ultimate control of the pistol, the highway patrolman shifted his death grip on the Smith & Wesson and pushed the magazine release. The fully loaded magazine fell away from the Model 59 and clattered loudly on the concrete floor, automatically engaging the factory safety that would not allow the weapon to fire again.

As they struggled, the terrorist managed to bring the pistol back down to chest level between the two men. Bracing his back against the retaining wall and with both hands wrapped around the Smith & Wesson itself, Mustafa shoved hard against Micah. The trooper was sent reeling backwards, losing his own grip on the pistol and nearly falling over.

Mustafa took a classic two-handed stance with the Model 59 and smiled grimly at his enemy, pressing the weapon’s trigger as Micah lunged forward again. Through the haze of close combat, Micah gave a quick prayer of thanks when the trigger went to the rear and nothing happened. The terrorist’s face changed to a puzzled look of astonishment, and then changed again as Micah hit him square in the mouth with a hard right fist. Mustafa’s head snapped back from the punch, and blood began flowing between loosened teeth and spread into his mouth.

But if anything else, the Hezbollah terrorist was a seasoned fighter and the taste of his own blood was a familiar one. In return he swung down hard with the pistol in his outstretched right hand. The butt of the Smith & Wesson struck a solid blow to the top of the highway patrolman’s head, sending an erupting shower of crimson into the air and leaving an ugly gash almost to the bone.

The impact stunned Micah to his very core, and he staggered drunkenly backwards as he tried to keep sight of the terrorist through the stars, planets and galaxies bursting in his head and clouding his vision. Fighting to maintain his balance, not to mention his consciousness, he watched as Mustafa nonchalantly cast the pistol aside and assume some sort of martial arts fighting stance. Somewhat disconcertedly he gave Micah that same grim, smug smile, but now with scarlet tinged teeth.

Micah set himself for a moment, breathing with large gulps and feeling the warm flow of his own blood running down the side of his face. With his right forearm, he wiped the red mist away to clear his vision as his legs steadied. Taking his own fighting position while eyeing his opponent, Micah Templar slung his head like a wild Brahma bull and charged forward once more.

But as he tried to close with the terrorist, he found himself attempting to make contact with a ghost. Qassam had not exaggerated about Mustafa’s formidable fighting skills, Micah’s best punches were either deflected or found nothing but empty air. The highway patrolman simply could not put knuckles against the longer reach of the Lebanese. Every move he made was countered by hand strikes and kicks that found their mark much of the time.

Doggedly Micah battled on, trying to find a part of his enemy that he could either grasp or strike in return. An elbow slam came out of no place, hitting Micah hard just above the left eye which began swelling rapidly. A kick caught him high on the right side of his torso, and he felt at least one rib crack from the impact. Another kick caught him full on the left side of his lower thigh, striking the peroneal nerve area and threatening to buckle his leg underneath him. Through the growing murkiness of pain and anguished gasps for air Micah realized that he was in the fight of his life, and that he was losing.

Again, the dazed and bloodied Texan staggered back, every fiber in his being just wanting to lay down and call it a day. He was some twenty years beyond his prime and about the same over his fighting weight, and Micah felt every bit of both like a crushing weight upon his shoulders, trying to force him down to the cold cement floor beneath his boot soles.

The highway patrolman could only see through his right eye now, as the left one had swelled mostly shut. His fists hung loosely at his sides like heavy stones, and he moved his head slowly to the side and spit out a mixture of blood, chipped tooth, and saliva. He was tired, hurt and wore down more than he could ever have imagined being before. He was done. He knew it and Mustafa, still with his smug little smile, knew it too.

Through the enveloping fog of physical injury and mental despair oozing through him, he heard a