Chapter 5 The honest man's counterattack is unpretentious

Amid the vast, heavy snowfall, a chilling wolf howl suddenly echoed.

Several North American coyotes emerged from the other side of the mountain, staring intently at the two-legged creature from a distance.

Hawk let the snowflakes fall on his body, hiding behind a rock, peeking out. Only three people had come, a much better scenario than the worst he had expected.

He moved his arms slightly to prevent his gun hand from becoming stiff due to the cold and snow, quietly waiting for the others to approach.

The white man leading the way wiped snowflakes off his eyebrows, following the footprints to a spot several dozen meters away. He gestured to the Black man, pointing above a large rock.

On the snowy white stone, a faint black spot was visible—a hat.

The Black man sneered, baring two rows of white teeth, and whispered, "You flank him from behind."

The white man began circling to the front side.

The Black man continued forward, with Freddy trailing seven or eight meters behind the white man.

In the mountainous area, the three men moved cautiously, always mindful of keeping themselves covered.

In America, no one could guarantee the other side wasn't armed.

From his hiding spot, Hawk didn’t wait for an opportunity but created one himself. He pulled hard on a rope with his left hand, and the stone tied to the other end tumbled down.

He pulled the rope several more times, making stones collide with one another, creating a rattling sound like someone running away.

Seeing the hat disappear and hearing the noise, the Black man quickened his pace and warned his companions, "He's trying to escape! Don’t let him get away!"

The white man, trying to circle behind, also sped up.

The Black man moved swiftly, jumping and running among the rocks, entering Hawk's shooting range within a few breaths.

Hawk slightly exposed his head, gripped the gun with both hands, aimed at the Black man, and pulled the trigger.

Bang—

The gunshot rang out, and the bullet hit the broadest part of the Black man's chest.

Hawk’s second shot followed immediately, striking the target's chest again.

The running Black man collapsed headfirst.

After firing the second shot, Hawk dove to the side.

The sound of a Glock firing repeatedly echoed, and bullets whizzed by.

The white man had started shooting.

Using the scattered rocks for cover, Hawk crawled and rolled about ten meters across the snow, hiding behind a large stone.

Thirty meters away, Freddy crouched behind a gray rock, saying, "This bastard’s got a gun!"

The white man stopped firing, hid for cover, and shouted the Black man's name, receiving no response.

"We need backup," Freddy said, abandoning the idea of capturing someone alive.

The white man snapped, "Shut up!"

Hawk leaned against the rock, listening to the sounds to gauge the enemy's position. He picked up a fist-sized stone, quickly glanced around, and threw it to his right.

The stone hit a larger rock, creating a crisp sound.

Freddy tensed up, gripping his knife for a shred of security.

Seven or eight meters away, the white man turned his gun towards the noise and fired two shots.

Hawk squatted on the ground, firmly gripping his handgun, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet sliced through the falling snowflakes, hitting the white man’s exposed arm.

The impact made the white man scream, exposing half of his chest.

Hawk fired again, and a hole appeared in the white man’s left chest, causing him to slump beside the rock.

The snow turned red.

Seeing what happened, Freddy turned and started running back.

He knew the bastard had only a handgun, making it hard to hit a moving target from a distance.

Hawk’s revolver had just four bullets, and there was no way he’d let Freddy get away. Seeing the man was only armed with a knife, Hawk immediately gave chase.

There were many rocks, and the snow made it slippery, slowing Freddy down.

When the distance closed to about twenty meters, Hawk glanced at Freddy’s figure, threw his empty handgun, and the shiny metal lump spun through the air, hitting Freddy in the back.

Freddy slipped, stumbled forward, and fell.

He turned to look at Hawk, knowing he couldn’t outrun this guy who was ten years younger. Gritting his teeth, he clutched his knife and charged toward Hawk.

Hawk slowed slightly, not wasting any words, facing Freddy head-on.

In this scenario, only one person would walk away alive.

Freddy had been a stuntman, with some skills in close combat. His knife sliced through the snowflakes, thrusting toward Hawk’s chest.

But Hawk was much faster. He sidestepped, his fist hammering like iron, smashing into Freddy’s open armpit. Freddy groaned as his shoulder and arm throbbed with pain, and his knife clattered to the ground.

Still desperate to survive, Freddy lowered himself and rushed forward.

Hawk’s fighting style was straightforward and brutal. His right knee shot up, slamming into Freddy’s groin.

Freddy let out a scream only men could understand. In a reflexive attempt to fight back, a calloused hand grabbed his throat.

Freddy’s breathing became labored, and his head grew dizzy.

Hawk’s left fist, with protruding knuckles, struck like a battering ram, hitting Freddy between the eyes and nose.

Freddy’s prominent Jewish nose crumpled, and blood splattered onto Hawk’s jacket, staining the words "Singing Detective."

Hawk’s fighting style was blunt and unembellished, relying on groin kicks, throat locks, and eye gouges!

Freddy’s consciousness faded, and he collapsed to the ground.

Hawk panted heavily, shaking his gloved hand—this body needed more training.

He took the laces from Freddy’s leather shoes, tying his hands behind his back and binding his feet before picking up the knife and revolver.

The coyotes howled mournfully from the hillside.

The wolves, scared off by the earlier gunfire, had returned, seemingly curious about what had happened.

Hawk found the white man's corpse, took his Glock, and searched the body, finding a wallet with cash but no identification.

He pocketed the cash and moved quickly toward the Black man, picking up another Glock. He searched the body, finding it the same as the other.

The snow was heavy, already blanketing the Black man’s body.

Hawk climbed the slope, retrieved the rope and his hat, and returned to where Freddy lay.

Freddy groaned, still dazed and barely conscious.

Hawk decided to wake him up. He pulled out Freddy’s knife, avoided any major blood vessels, and stabbed it into Freddy’s leg.

Freddy let out a scream, loud enough to scare the coyotes into tucking their tails between their legs.

“Let me go! Let me go!” Freddy writhed in pain, crying out, “I can get you into Hollywood! Make you a big star! An action star!”

Hawk ignored him, pulled out the knife, wiped it carelessly on the snow, and asked, “Who sent you?”

Freddy, sweating from the pain, turned pale and gritted his teeth. “I’m a Hollywood celebrity! A socialite with a name! If you kill me, you’ll be wanted across America!”

Hawk replied, “Don’t worry, I won’t kill you.”

Freddy exhaled a little in relief.

Hawk added, “I’ll just cut your Achilles tendons and leave you here.”

He glanced at the coyotes on the hill, “They’ll love your scent. Coyotes prefer live prey. They’ll rip open your belly while you’re still alive and help you with an organ transplant…”

Hearing about organ transplants, Freddy shivered violently.

Hawk placed the knife near Freddy’s Achilles tendon and asked, “Did Robert Downey Jr. specifically ask you to make me jump? Was he involved?”

Freddy, his mind foggy, blurted out, “Yes!”

Hawk asked, “Who else?”

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