August takes a deep breath and exhales. He then rolls down his door's window and slips out of the car, sitting on the windowsill.
His fingers close around the familiar grip of his pistols, their weight a comforting presence in his hands. The now-cold air bites at his skin as he steadies himself on the windowsill, the wind whipping his hair and clothing.
Layla's face reflects her fear, but she doesn't take her hands off the wheel.
August adjusts his position on the windowsill, the vehicle shaking slightly beneath him, and prepares for what's coming. The sound of the chasing convoy's engines grows louder as they are now clearly visible, the reminder that the upcoming fight is unavoidable.
August's heart pounds as he steadies his aim, the cold air stinging his exposed face. With practiced precision, he fires at the lead vehicle's gas block, the shot hitting its mark with a sharp ping. Smoke and flame erupt immediately, and the lead vehicle lurches, sparks flying as the engine dies.
The convoy screeches to a halt, soldiers jumping out, shouting and gesturing wildly. They quickly take cover behind their vehicles, weapons drawn and trained on August.
August feels the car shudder beneath him, the engine coughing once—then silence. A sick realization settles in as the momentum fades, the vehicle coasting helplessly to a stop on the dark road.
"Layla, stay inside. Do NOT come out." August grips the doorframe, his voice firm but low. The car lurches to a final stop, its momentum drained, the empty gas tank a silent death sentence. He exhales sharply as he slips back inside to the driver's seat.
Layla nods, her eyes darting nervously between August and the soldiers, who are cautiously advancing on their position.
August can hear the crunch of their boots on the sand, their voices harsh and urgent as they communicate. The wind continues to howl, carrying with it the bitter cold of the night.
As he steps out of the car, the full force of the elements hits him. The biting wind cuts through his clothing, and the earthen ground immediately chills his feet. He reaches up to touch his own face, annoyed that he didn't wrap it beforehand. A regret he can't fix now, he'll have to make do. He takes out his weapon from beneath his robes.
August draws his sword with a fluid motion, the blade catching the weak light of the headlights behind him. The soldiers halt, their weapons still raised but more uncertain now. He can see the glint of recognition in their eyes as they register the weapon, and their murmurs grow louder.
Layla remains in the car, her hands clutching the pistol in her hand, watching the scene unfold with mounting dread.
"You saw my face. I can't let you leave here alive." August speaks in pashto, his words cutting through the howling wind.
The soldiers tense. The lead soldier, a burly man with a thick beard, steps forward, his eyes narrowing. "You're making a mistake, foreigner," he says.
Behind him, more soldiers spread out, their weapons trained in August. The tension is palpable, the air crackling with unspoken violence.
One soldier cuts the tension and readies his rifle. "Infidel! Enough of your blasphemy, woman!" His fingers press the trigger, bullets flying as he continues. "Die!"
The howling wind is drowned out by the sharp cracks of rifle fire as the soldier's allies fire as well. Bullets whistle past August's head as he lunges into action.
As August sprints forward, drawing their fire, bullets kick up dirt and sand around him, creating a hailstorm of deadly projectiles. The soldiers are taken aback by your sudden charge, their shots going wide as they scramble to adjust their aim.
August zigzags, his sword held out to the side, a distraction and a defense against any stray bullets. He hears Layla's terrified scream as the car's rear window shatters, along with the pain of a bullet having found its mark in his gut. He grits his teeth, pushing through the pain and adrenaline, determined to keep the soldier's focus on himself.
His eyes are locked onto the soldier's muzzle flashes, his mind calculating their trajectories, body instinctively dodging and weaving.
In one fluid motion, August's pistol barks, the round taking a soldier clean through his neck. Another falls with his sword, the blade cutting a clean line through his exposed shoulder, spraying hot blood into the frigid night air.
His movements draw screams of fury from the remaining soldiers, and bullets whizz dangerously close. August continues his deadly dance, weaving through the hail of bullets. His pistol barks again, dropping another soldier with a headshot. His sword flashes, parrying a bullet and slashing through the throat of a soldier foolish enough to get too close. The air is filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder and the coppery tang of blood.
Layla's screams still ring in his ears, spurring August on with a desperate urgency.
"Twelve armed men to start with. Killed ten. Where's the-" August thoughts are cut off as pain grips his mind, sudden and blinding. The world goes silent and dark for a moment.
August staggers, his vision swimming, his legs threatening to give out. A gush of warm liquid streams down his face, and he realizes with a sinking feeling that he's been shot. He reaches up, his fingers coming away crimson.
August collapses to one knee, his balance and coordination shot. But his body, beyond conscious thought, reacts on its own. His sword arm swings up, deflecting a rifle butt headed for your skull. He feels the impact in his bones, but he doesn't falter. His pistol, still gripped tightly in your hand, fires again, the muzzle flash momentarily blinding.
He feels the satisfying recoil as another soldier falls, but the effort of moving is increasingly difficult. Blood is flowing freely now, his vision growing darker at the edges. He forces himself to his feet before stumbling to his knees again, his sword wavering in his grip.
A final soldier stands before him, his rifle wavering, his face pale with fear and revulsion. His finger tightens on the trigger and a shot rings out from behind August. The soldier's head rocking back with the impact of a bullet.
August turns his head slightly, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.
Layla stands by the bullet ridden car, her pistol still raised, hands trembling. Her face is pale, her wide eyes locked onto the lifeless body she just shot.
August's head throbs with a sickening, skull-deep pressure, his stomach twisting violently. He staggers, bile rising, and then—he retches. Acid burns his throat as vomit splatters onto the frozen ground, the world tilting in sharp, nauseating jerks. His vision pulses, black spots creeping at the edges. Something shifts inside his head, deep and wrong. His breath hitches. Then comes the pain. A searing, bone-deep agony as the bullet claws its way out, splitting flesh and muscle, grinding against bone.
His body trembles, muscles spasming as it forces the metal free. With a wet, sickening pop, the bullet finally emerges, rolling to the dirt in a mess of blood and tissue. August barely registers it. His knees buckle, the strength draining from his limbs, and he collapses, barely catching himself on trembling hands. His breath is ragged, uneven, blood still dripping from the hole in his skull. But he's conscious. Barely.