Coulter judged the angle. Half the guy’s body was visible through the steel framing. He could hit Ramsey, but not in the sweet spot at the base of his skull where Coulter could guarantee the guy wouldn’t jerk, get off a shot. If that happened… Wynn or Neve would get hit. And that was ignoring the dead man’s switch.
Sure, Ramsey could be bluffing, but in Coulter’s experience, men like him didn’t bluff. The only question was whether Ramsey had armed the switch yet.
Coulter studied the structure around Ramsey. If this section was used to simulate urban, close quarters fighting like he suspected, there might be another option.
There.
Behind the other man. A length of piping running along the upper roofline of the adjoining container. What Coulter hoped was high pressure water or gas. Something that would give him several seconds to cover the distance between them before Ramsey recovered, either got off a shot, or pressed the damn switch.
He took a breath, kept his Sig centered on Ramsey’s head, then stepped into the edge of the flare’s light.
Smiling, Ramsey pinned his gaze on him, seemingly unfazed by Coulter’s pistol. “I still don’t know your name.”
Coulter stopped, glanced at Wynn, then back. “I guess Fraser didn’t get a chance to fill you in.”
“Fraser was expendable. I got what I needed out of him.”
“It’s Barrett. Coulter Barrett.”
“Barrett. Thank you. I hate not knowing what to write down in my book.”
“If you’re so eager to jot down my name, why aren’t you firing?”
Ramsey shrugged. “We’ve got a bit of time. After all, your girl hasn’t bled out, yet.”
“Men like you don’t showboat.” He took a step, glancing at the switch, how Ramsey’s thumb was already compressing a button. If he released the pressure… They’d all blow. “You’re stalling.”
Ramsey motioned to Coulter’s weapon. “If you pull that trigger, you’ll blow us all up.”
Coulter held firm. “Maybe, if I was aiming at you.”
He fired, hit the valve above and behind Ramsey with a shrill ping. The handle blew off, a high-pressured stream of water vapor spewing out, hitting Ramsey in the back. He shouted, turned to avoid the spray as Coulter took off, holstering his Sig as he sprinted along the catwalk, narrowing Ramsey’s focus to his body barreling toward him.
The other man got off a couple trigger pulls, sheared one off the railing, the other catching Coulter in the side of his vest. The round mushroomed against the Kevlar as pain spread through his ribs, choking off his breath, but he pushed through, took the final crushing steps toward Ramsey before bowling the guy over.
They stumbled against the railing, boots clattering, the impact knocking them sideways. Coulter grabbed Ramsey’s pistol, clamped his palm around the slide, then slid it back, locking it in place as he reached for the switch — got his thumb wedged over Ramsey’s on the button.
Ramsey fought back, landing a knee to Coulter’s groin before Coulter countered with a headbutt, dazing the guy. The strike spun the scenery, every old injury sparking to life as they grappled for control, each trying to get in a hit that would change the dynamics, shift the power.
Ramsey managed to push off the rail, send them careening backwards. Coulter’s shoulders hit the grating with a hard smack, the impact jarring his ribs, but he moved with it, using Ramsey’s momentum to launch him over his shoulders — tumble him across the platform.
The move wrenched Coulter’s hands off Ramsey for a few terrifying seconds before he rolled with the force and dove on top of the guy, cinching one hand around Ramsey’s wrist, the other over the button. Ramsey landed a few knees to Coulter’s hips before Coulter managed to slam Ramsey’s gun hand against the grating, knocking the Sig out of his grip and onto the rocks beneath them.
Ramsey grunted, twisted his arm free and caught Coulter in the jaw. Coulter’s head snapped back, dots exploding across his vision, everything flashing white. He focused on the switch, on keeping the pressure on the button, when Ramsey landed a couple brutal strikes to his injured ribs. Pain clogged his throat, a coppery taste filling his mouth.
His finger slipped slightly, that button popping up a fraction of an inch before he clenched his fist, squeezing so hard one of Ramsey’s fingers cracked from the strain.
The bastard shouted, tried to draw his spare twenty-two with his other hand when Coulter tucked his shoulder and rolled. The sudden force twisted Ramsey’s arm in his socket, the guy’s shoulder popping out with a bone-crushingcrack. He screamed, that arm going limp, the switch practically falling into Coulter’s hand. He fisted the mechanism, thumb fully engaged on the trigger as he snagged his KA-BAR, threw it as he pushed onto all fours, catching Ramsey in the neck just as the guy raised his pistol, finger caressing the trigger.
A round cracked off the railing, whizzing past Coulter’s head as Ramsey clutched his throat, eyes wide, a strangled rasp gurgling free. He wavered, swaying left then right before tumbling off the side and into the darkness below.
Rain streamed down Coulter’s face, his ribs protesting every gasping breath as he staggered to his feet, deactivated the switch, then stumbled his way over to Wynn. Blood welled between her fingers, Neve’s skin so damn white he wasn’t sure how she hadn’t faded already.
Wynn motioned to her kit. “Grab the QuickClot and more sponges. Another pressure bandage, too.”
Coulter shoved the switch into his pocket, then rummaged for the supplies, handing them to Wynn as she exposed the wounds and began layering on powder and bandages. Neve groaned, eyelids fluttering, one hand lifting to bat at Wynn’s.
Wynn grasped her hand, held it against her chest. “I know. Hurts like a bastard, but I have to stop the bleeding.”