OMG Red Cowboys sneak preview!
July 2, 2020 3:40 am Leave your thoughts
Cowboy.” 1, Traditional animal herder who tends cattle on ranches usually in the North American region.
2, Derogatory term describing someone who is reckless, ignores potential risks, irresponsible or who heedlessly handles a sensitive or dangerous task.
SWEAT GLUED AGENT TRENT STARR’S BLACK MDS SHIRT TO HIS BACK. No relief carried on feeble warm breeze sighing thick air across his face. It was like breathing through a soggy rag, sun beating down and surrounded by eye-watering azure blue. The back of the Red Tag building cast a shadow over half the rubber pitch he was standing on as he pushed his sleeves up and caught his breath across from the other guy. Watch the quadrant, he might go for his gun.
His black hair was hanging untied, damp and stringy around his neck and crawling on his skin. Sweat snaked by his bloodshot aurora-green eyes while he analysed the other guy’s movements. He tried to stay focussed but his body was battling fatigue and losing too obviously. He was out of form. It was time to end it because he was thinking about his next moves now, usually they just happened.
He exploded forward, a round kick to the guy’s ribs then a sloppy attempt at some sort of showy tornado kick, sorry and off-target. He expected miscalculation after almost an hour in desert sun. What he didn’t expect was to be countered instantly with a boot to the guts and hurled backwards clear of the pitch to skid along the jagged asphalt.
His elbow burst into flames, skin shredding on blistering serrated gravel as he tumbled and breathed in dust. His lungs squeezed against his ribs, hot pain drilling him to stay down. He didn’t know if it was pride or the fact the other guy snickered when he landed, but he launched himself up fast and bolted across to stare down from his six foot two frame like he was going to crush him. Maybe he was.
He blocked a shot to the body and then ended it with a slick takedown. It was completely over when Trent’s boot planted fast and hard on the guy’s chest and he’d pulled his Sig for a point-blank shot. The other guy stopped squirming and raised his hands immediately. The trigger resisted under Trent’s finger, double-checking he really wanted to fire.
“Whoa, okay! My back’s burning, let me up, Agent Starr.”
Hearing his name was a séance forcing him to re-enter his body from someplace else. He had to take a few breaths before he remembered he was sparring at HQ. It wasn’t life or death, and he shouldn’t have been scrapping with a live firearm present.
He blinked away sweat and took his foot off the other guy’s chest.
Shit.
He put the weapon up nice and easy like he’d only pulled it for effect, but strikes had been leaving his limbs near 75 percent, enough to land him in shit if he’d done the other agent damage and rendered him unusable…then he’d pulled a gun too? He didn’t say anything as he left the pitch and holstered his weapon. It was subpar all round. Luckily, the only person to witness his pathetic excuse for control and technique was that dopey fucker, Agent Reed.
When Trent looked back, the Green Tag was getting to his feet and brushing off dust. The ground around him wavered while he stood with his arms out, asking Trent ‘what the heck’ the problem was. Then Reed was on him like a ball and chain, watching him retrieve the black towel lying on the asphalt and wipe the sweat from his face and neck before putting his sunglasses back on. He waited until Trent was done, head tilted up to look him in the eyewear and squinting when Trent moved and he got a face full of sun.
“Appointment in the field,” Trent mumbled, “Excuse me.”
Reed stepped forward and blocked his path. He ran a clammy hand through his dirt-blonde hair and glanced at the other buildings.
“Has Number One cleared you?”
Trent let it ride for a few seconds then turned and left Reed sweating in the sun.
He’d wasted the whole goddam morning. Getting ready and finding a place where they probably wouldn’t be disturbed ate time, then it was on. He didn’t want to use some VR Training Sim, he wanted the real thing and he’d planned to spar Reed for half an hour, max, but it had ended up going for double–and that was on him–because he’d begun to take it more seriously than he should have.
Hitting Reed in the guts felt good. He was twenty one years old, could’ve been on the cusp of making Blue and advancing to the next rank if he was a reputable agent, but it wouldn’t happen for him anytime soon. The guy seemed oddly inexperienced. Other agents had been posted on The Outside or Deleted at least a couple of targets out in the field by his age but he acted like a Fobbit, like he’d never even left HQ.
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