Courage and Coward

Bang! Bang! Bang!

T.B. fired three more shots toward the last movement he had spotted in the dense tree line, each gunshot cracking through the cold air before vanishing into the silent, watching forest. The assassin was still there, unseen but present, shifting behind the trees like a shadow, calculating every move with the patience of a hunter who already knew the outcome.

T.B. didn't have time to think about that. Anderson was still down on the gravel, fully exposed, his body curled against the sharp, unforgiving ground, his breath coming in fast, shallow gasps that made it clear—he had never been in a situation like this before.

T.B. grabbed Anderson's arm and dragged him toward the side of the Toyota Hilux, his boots grinding against the dirt as he pulled the younger man into cover. And just as he did, a bullet shattered through the windshield on the driver's side, glass exploding outward in a spray of deadly fragments. The sound of breaking glass was sharp, violent—followed by the patter of debris raining down on them like ice shards in a storm.

Some of it cut into T.B.'s arm, but he didn't flinch. Anderson barely reacted—his face was pale, his limbs stiff with shock. The truck rocked slightly, its rear tire dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, the loose dirt underneath threatening to give way at any moment.

T.B. rolled to the front of the vehicle, letting Anderson collapse against the rear tire. His head was down, hands clutching his skull, his back pressing hard against the rubber as if trying to disappear into it. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven. He wasn't just scared—he was drowning in it.

T.B. crouched low behind the front left tire, Glock 17 raised, his movements precise, controlled. He stuck the pistol out, aimed toward the assassin's last known position, and—

Bang! Bang!

Two more shots into the trees before pulling back, not even waiting to see if they hit. Suppressive fire. That's all he could do now. His magazine was running low quickly.

The problem wasn't just the assassin—it was their position. A dead end. Nowhere to run. The Toyota Hilux was their only cover, and it wouldn't be cover for long. If the assassin moved just a little farther through the trees, he'd get an angle on them from the other side, and then—they wouldn't stand a chance.

T.B. knew what had to be done. They had to move. They had to get into the trees, force the fight into close quarters, where his pistol had a chance. But moving meant exposing themselves, and right now, the assassin had every advantage.

The rifle in the assassin's hands was a Garand M1. A battle rifle. Not just some random weapon, but one meant for killing at a distance. It fired full-powered 7.62×63mm NATO rounds—long, heavy bullets meant for combat, for taking down targets at 500 yards with lethal accuracy.

T.B. wasn't carrying anything close to that kind of firepower. His Glock 17 pistol was effective at 54 yards at best—and even that was pushing it. He had speed on his side, but speed didn't matter when the enemy could shoot through trees and steel like they were paper.

And the assassin? He wasn't missing. His shots were getting closer.

Another gunshot cracked from the treeline. A split-second later, metal screamed as the bullet punched into the Toyota Hilux's hood. More shards of glass rained down from the already shattered windshield, bouncing off T.B.'s shoulders, off Anderson's shaking body.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

T.B. fired fast, towards the gunshot. He calculated—every shot meant to buy time, to make the assassin think twice, to keep him from advancing too quickly. The Glock's recoil snapped against his grip, spent casings flipping into the dirt.

The assassin wasn't just good—he was controlling the fight. Pinning them. Trapping them. This wasn't just an ambush. It was a slow execution.

T.B. exhaled through his nose, lowering his gun slightly. Beside him, Anderson was trembling, his entire body shivering so hard that his shoulders knocked against the rubber of the rear tire. His hands were still clamped over his head, his breath coming in ragged gulps, but it was the dark stain spreading across the front of his pants that made T.B. look away.

Anderson had pissed himself.

T.B. didn't find it funny. Not at all.

He had seen this before. First-timers. Guys who thought they could handle a fight—until they realized that bullets didn't care who they were. Until they understood that death wasn't some distant thing, waiting for old age, but something immediate, something close, something breathing down their necks with every passing second.

Anderson had just learned that lesson.

T.B. clenched his jaw, his mind racing through options. There weren't many. Four things were against them.

One—position. No escape routes. No real cover.

Two—firepower. A pistol against a battle rifle.

Three—ammunition. The last bullets sat in his Glock 17 like cruel jokes.

Four—tactical disadvantage. The assassin was experienced. More experienced than T.B. wanted to admit.

There was only one way out.

T.B. grabbed Anderson by the collar, forcing him to look up. The younger man's eyes were bloodshot, glassy, red from the wind, from the sheer force of panic gripping his body.

Anderson, still trembling, still crouched against the Toyota Hilux's rear tire, didn't move. He was frozen—completely paralyzed—not by pain, not by exhaustion, but by something far worse. Fear. A deep, gut-wrenching terror that locked his limbs in place, that stole the air from his lungs, that made his body betray him in the most primal way possible.

"We have to go. Now." T.B. hissed. "If the assassin gets an angle, this fucking guy could shoot us as easily as chickens in a coop."

Anderson swallowed hard. His voice was barely a whisper. "Where?"

T.B. pointed toward the river—the only escape route left, the only option between dying pinned down on this exposed road and taking their chances in the rushing current below.

Anderson's hands curled into T.B.'s shirt, his entire body shaking harder now. He looked over the edge of the cliff, saw the rushing water far below, and his breath caught in his throat.

He was afraid to jump. He wasn't the courageous man T.B. had known before.

T.B. growled, pressing his Glock 17 against Anderson's temple, his finger dangerously close to the trigger. He wasn't playing anymore.

"You fuckking coward! Jump now or I shoot you!"

Anderson flinched, stumbled backward—then ran.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

T.B. fired three more shots toward the shifting darkness between the trees. Each pull of the trigger sent a sharp, violent crack through the cold night air, the muzzle flashes briefly illuminating the jagged outlines of branches, the faint, distant silhouette of their hunter lurking just beyond sight. 17 rounds. The Glock was empty now—except for one last bullet.

It would be always for him.

Always.

Anderson's feet barely touched the ground before he was at the edge, then—he was gone. The wind swallowed his scream as he plunged into the water below.

This wasn't just a firefight.

This was execution.

T.B. took a breath, stealing one last glance at the shifting darkness, at the hunter who was still out there, still waiting.

Then—he jumped.