The Wolf of Los Angeles

Chapter 5: The Honest Man's Counterattack, Simple Yet Effective

Amid the heavy snowfall, a chilling howl broke through the silence.

Several North American coyotes emerged from the opposite side of the mountain, their eyes fixed warily on the two-legged intruders.@@novelbin@@

Hawk let the snow settle on his shoulders as he crouched behind a boulder, observing the approaching figures. Only three men had come—far better than the worst-case scenario he had anticipated.

He flexed his fingers slightly, ensuring his hand wouldn't cramp from the cold or dampness of the snow, and prepared to strike as the group drew nearer.

The white man in the lead wiped snow from his eyebrows, following the footprints up ahead. He spotted a hint of black atop a boulder—a hat—and signaled to the Black man, pointing towards the object.

The Black man grinned, his white teeth flashing, and murmured, “You go around and cut him off.”

The white man began circling forward. The Black man advanced cautiously, while Freddy trailed behind at a distance of seven or eight meters, staying behind cover.

The trio moved carefully. This was America, after all—there was no telling if their quarry was armed.

The rolling rock clattered noisily against others, mimicking the sound of someone fleeing.

The Black man saw the hat disappear and heard the commotion. He immediately quickened his pace, shouting, “He's trying to escape! Don't let him get away!”

The white man, who was maneuvering to cut off Hawk’s retreat, also sped up.

The Black man’s agile strides brought him within Hawk’s firing range in mere moments. Hawk peeked out slightly, both hands steady on his revolver, and pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The shot struck the Black man squarely in the chest. Hawk fired again, hitting the same area.

The Black man toppled forward mid-stride, collapsing face-first into the snow.

Even as the second shot rang out, Hawk rolled to the side, taking cover behind another boulder.

The white man retaliated with a flurry of gunfire from his Glock, the bullets whizzing over Hawk’s head.

Hawk crawled and rolled through the snow, finding a safer vantage point a dozen meters away.

From thirty meters back, Freddy crouched behind a gray rock, his voice trembling as he said, “He’s armed!”

The white man stopped shooting and crouched behind cover. He called out the Black man’s name but received no reply.

“We need backup,” Freddy suggested, panic creeping into his voice.

“Shut up!” the white man barked, irritated.

Hawk leaned against his rock, listening intently to gauge their positions. He picked up an orange-sized rock, glanced left and right to confirm their locations, then hurled it toward his right.

The thrown rock clattered against a larger stone, creating a clear sound.

Freddy clutched his knife tighter, searching for a sense of safety.

Seven or eight meters away, the white man pivoted and fired two shots toward the noise.

Hawk seized the distraction. Rising slightly, he aimed his revolver and fired.

The bullet pierced through the swirling snow and struck the white man’s exposed arm. The impact forced a scream from him as he stumbled, exposing his chest.

Hawk didn’t hesitate—his second shot drilled into the man’s left chest. Blood spread across the snow as the white man crumpled beside a rock.

Freddy, seeing the carnage, turned and bolted.

Realizing that Hawk’s weapon was a revolver with limited ammunition, Freddy banked on distance to escape. He knew it would be difficult for Hawk to land a precise shot on a moving target.

But Hawk wasn’t about to let Freddy get away. Noting that Freddy only carried a knife, he immediately gave chase.

The rocky terrain was treacherous, made even more slippery by the snow, and Freddy’s flight was clumsy at best.

Amid the snowstorm, the tension on the mountainside reached its peak.

As Hawk closed the gap to 20 meters, he noticed Freddy’s figure ahead. With a swift motion, Hawk hurled his now-empty revolver. The gleaming silver chunk spun through the air and struck Freddy square in the back, causing him to lose his footing and stumble forward before falling.

Freddy turned to face Hawk, realizing he couldn’t outrun the younger, fitter man. A grim determination took over, and he gripped his knife tightly, charging at Hawk with all his might.

Hawk slowed down slightly but didn’t hesitate. He stood his ground.

This was a fight where only one of them would leave alive.

Freddy, with his background as a stuntman, had some close-quarters combat training. His knife slashed through the falling snow in a deadly arc aimed at Hawk’s chest.

Hawk moved faster. With a deft sidestep, he avoided the blade and swung his fist like a hammer into Freddy’s exposed armpit. The blow landed with bone-crunching force, causing Freddy to grunt in pain as his arm and shoulder went numb. The knife clattered to the ground.

But Freddy knew his only chance at survival was to fight desperately. Lowering his body, he tried to tackle Hawk.

Hawk’s response was simple and devastating. With no flourish, he drove his right knee up into Freddy’s groin.

Freddy let out a scream that only men could truly understand. Even as he reflexively tried to counter, Hawk’s calloused hand shot out, delivering a precise chop to Freddy’s throat.

Freddy gasped for air, his vision swimming.

Hawk followed up with his left fist, knuckles jutting forward like a battering ram, striking Freddy squarely between the eyes and nose.

The impact crushed Freddy’s prominent Jewish nose, sending blood splattering across Hawk’s jacket, staining the words “Singing Detective”

Hawk’s fighting style was brutally straightforward: groin strikes, throat chops, and eye jabs—practical, ruthless, and effective.

Freddy’s resistance crumbled. He collapsed to the ground, consciousness slipping away.

Breathing heavily, Hawk shook the stiffness from his gloved hands. This body needed more conditioning.

He removed Freddy’s shoelaces, using them to tie the man’s hands behind his back and bind his feet. Only then did he retrieve the knife and his discarded revolver.

A chilling howl echoed from the mountainside as coyotes, startled earlier by the gunfire, began circling back, curious about the commotion.

Hawk quickly checked the bodies of the two other men. From the white man, he retrieved a Glock pistol and a wallet containing cash but no identification.

The Black man’s corpse, already covered in a layer of snow, yielded similar findings: another Glock and cash.

Returning to Freddy, who was groaning faintly, Hawk decided to “wake him up.”

Avoiding major arteries, he drove Freddy’s own knife into the man’s leg.

Freddy screamed, his cry piercing through the snowy silence and startling the coyotes into retreat.

“Please! Let me go!” Freddy begged, writhing in pain. “I can get you into Hollywood! Make you a star! An action star!”

Hawk ignored him, pulling the knife free and wiping it clean in the snow. He asked coldly, “Who ordered this?”

Sweat dripped from Freddy’s pale face as he gritted his teeth. “I’m a Hollywood figure! A famous personality! If you kill me, you’ll be hunted across the entire United States!”

“Relax,” Hawk said, his tone almost casual. “I won’t kill you.”

Freddy exhaled shakily in relief.

Hawk’s next words chilled him to the bone. “I’ll sever your Achilles tendons and leave you here.”

Hawk’s eyes flicked toward the circling coyotes. “They’ll love you. Coyotes prefer their meals alive. They’ll tear you open and help you with some organ donations...”

The mention of organ donations made Freddy tremble uncontrollably.

Hawk pressed the knife against Freddy’s Achilles tendon. “Robert Downey Jr. specifically asked for me to do the jump. Was he involved?”

Freddy’s disoriented mind responded reflexively, “Yes!”

“What about the others?” Hawk pressed further.