Chapter 8 - Do or Die

Layla grips the edge of her seat as she starts to panic. As they approach the checkpoint, August slows the vehicle just enough to avoid immediate suspicion. The makeshift barricade is little more than a pile of metal drums and wooden planks, manned by half a dozen Taliban fighters. Their rifles are hung lazily at their sides, but their eyes are sharp, scanning each vehicle that passes.

"August. August-" Layla's voice is tight, almost pleading. She doesn't know what else to say, panic taking control of her.

"Breath," August mutters, his voice soft as always, but also low and even. His eyes stay locked onto the man approaching the car, his hands loose on the steering wheel, waiting. "Let me handle this."

The soldier steps up to the driver's side as August completely lowers the car window. His sharp gaze flickers from August's masked face to Layla, and back to August. "Identification and papers, now." His tone is suspicious, impatient.

August remains still, merely looking at the soldier saying nothing in response.

"I said, identification and papers. Now!", the soldier repeats, his tone more impatient than before. The other soldiers shift, their hands tightening on their rifles, watching the car intently. The locals on the sidewalk have come to a complete halt, their eyes trained on the unfolding situation.

This time August responds, but not with words.

"Step out of th-" The soldier's words are cut off as August swiftly reaches out towards his face. Once his fingers are firmly locked in, August slams the man's head on the car's windowsill, his skull popping audibly as it cracks against the window sill's edge.

Layla gasps, slapping both hands around her mouth, eyes wide with horror. August slams his foot on the gas pedal, still holding on to the man's screaming face.

The car surges forward from zero to fifty miles per hour, dragging the limp body of the soldier, August still gripping the man's face as they tear through the checkpoint. Another soldier barely has time to dodge before the vehicle slams into him, sending him sprawling.

Layla shrieks, as bullets start to fly. "August!"

The car rockets past the barricade, August finally dropping the deadweight from his grip. The body tumbles to the side, rolling like a ragdoll in the dirt.

Layla hyperventilates, her hands tangled in her robes as the car speeds out of the village. "You-you just-"

"Breath." August repeats, his voice tighter this time. More focused. "We're not safe yet. And I need your help.", he says, looking at the rearview mirror. He catches vehicles following them in the mirror, kicking up a plume of dust and sand as they give chase.

"Listen, my duffel bag is in the back seat. In the side pocket are two pistols. Get them, please." August says as bullets begin hitting their stolen car. 

Layla lets out a startled yelp, her eyes shut as her hands cover her face.

August's grip on the steering wheel tightens. Another bullet slams into the back of the car, rattling the frame. "Layla," he tries again, his voice sharper but not unkind. "Guns. Now. Please."

Her head snaps toward him, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.

"The side pocket," he repeats, pushing the gas pedal further. The engine roars in protest, the speedometer needle climbing. "Now."

Layla hesitates for a moment, her eyes flicking between you and the duffle bag at her feet. The adrenaline still courses through her veins, making her hands tremble slightly as she reaches for the bag. She unzips the side pocket, her fingers brushing against the cold metal of the pistols inside. "I... okay," she says, her voice unsteady as she lifts out the weapons.

"Please, keep your finger OFF the trigger."

Layla nods quickly, her hands shaking as she holds the pistols. "I will," she promises, her words quivering slightly. Her fingers wrap around the grips, but she keeps her finger well away from the triggers.

Another shot rings out, this time much closer. The back windshield spiderwebs with a crack, the mangled bullet stuck in the glass at the point of impact.

Layla nearly jumps out of her skin, her pulse roaring in her ears. No more thinking. No more hesitation. The weapons are taken out from the duffel bag and she shoves the pistols into August's waiting hand.

"Thank you" August takes one, leaving the other between his legs, and cocks the barrel. He does a one handed press-check to confirm if the bullet is ready to be fired. 

The sounds of pursuit grow louder, the roar of engines and the screech of tires filling the air. Layla glances out the cracked back window, her heart leaping into her throat as she sees the Taliban vehicles closing in. "They're getting closer!" she exclaims, her voice rising in pitch. "What do we do now?" Augusts grits his teeth, his hands tightening on the steering wheel as he weaves through fire.

"Layla," August's voice is calm yet firm. "Take the wheel."

She blinks, her head snapping toward him. "What?"

"I need both hands."

Layla's eyes widen. "You—what?"

He presses a button on the dashboard—cruise control. The car hums as it locks onto its current speed, bouncing slightly over the uneven terrain. August lets go of the wheel.

Layla stares at the abandoned steering wheel in horror. "A-August—"

"Steer."

"I can't—I don't—"

"Layla." His voice cuts through her panic like a blade. "Hold. The. Damn. Wheel."

Her hands dart out, gripping the wheel just as the car veers slightly off course. She yelps, frantically correcting, her arms shaking. "I—I don't know what I'm doing!"

"Keep it straight," August instructs, rolling the window back down. Cool air rushes in, mixing with the acrid scent of gunpowder.

Layla sucks in a breath, trying to keep the car steady. The road is uneven, shifting under the tires, but she holds firm. Her pulse hammers against her ribs.

August leans out the window, guns in hand. His expression is unreadable—calm, focused, utterly detached.

"What are you doing? You'll fall!" she exclaims, her voice rising into panic.

The first shot cracks through the air. A splatter of red. One of the drivers in pursuit jerks violently, his body slumping forward. His vehicle swerves before flipping onto its side in a shower of sparks.

Layla yelps but keeps her grip tight.

Another shot. A tire explodes, sending another truck careening into the dunes.

August doesn't acknowledge her. Another shot. Another body drops onto their steering wheel, causing another crash.

Layla can't look away, her hands clammy on the wheel, her mind screaming at her that this isn't real, that this can't be happening. But the bodies say otherwise. The gunfire. The blood. The chaos.

The last truck is still on them, its driver ducking low. August's brows furrow. He adjusts his aim.

Click.

Empty.

August pulls himself back inside, his face unreadable as he ejects the magazines and grabs fresh ones from the bag. He reloads quickly, barely a second wasted.

Layla swallows hard. "Are—are we gonna die?"

August clicks the magazine into place. "Not today." He does another press-check away from her, cautious if a shot would involuntarily go off in her direction. He judges the gun with its bullet properly slid in the barrel.

August's eyes flick to the side mirror on his left, catching the glint of something unmistakable—a militiaman hoisting an RPG onto his shoulder, the warhead primed. He's sitting on the passenger window sill of his truck.

"Idiot", the thought goes through August's head as he sits back on the window sill.

Before the man can fully take aim, August makes his calculations. Wind resistance, distance, the fragile casing of the warhead. The variables are simple to his mind.

Crack.

His bullet finds its mark, striking the warhead while it's still in its launcher. For a split second, nothing happens.

A thunderous explosion consumes the shooter and those within the vehicle in a fiery bloom. The shockwave rattles August and Layla's stolen vehicle, dust and debris showering down in their wake.

Silence.

Layla realizes she's been holding her breath.

"Alright," August mutters as he sits back in the driver's seat, reaching for the wheel. "I got it."

Layla lets go instantly, retreating into her seat, her chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. Her fingers twitch like they still feel the wheel.

August pulls the car back under his control, his hands steady, his expression unreadable. No survivors, the only thing he feels satisfaction for.

Layla stares at him. "You're insane."

August doesn't respond. He reloads his pistol, flicks the safety on, puts it between his legs, and just drives.

Layla still shakes from the adrenaline. Every calculated move, every bullet fired with mathematical precision, has reaffirmed his deadly capability. In that moment, her trust in his lethal competence is the only thing that matters.

August finally says after a minute of silent driving, "You did good."

She doesn't know how to feel about that.