Sullivan Saga 2: Sullivan's Wrath by Michael K. Rose Page A

past the headlights to get a clear shot at the driver, the door beside him opened inward. Before he could react, Sullivan was knocked sideways. He landed hard against the wall of the warehouse across the alley.
    His injuries from his fight with the loyalists flared up, sending pain shooting through his head and torso. He struggled through it and raised his gun at his attacker. He fired but knew he had missed. His eyes couldn’t focus.
    A dark figure loomed over him and kicked the gun from Sullivan’s hand. He heard noise from the direction of the forklift and caught a glimpse of the driver jumping out from the cab. Turning back to his other assailant, his eyes focused on the barrel of a gun pointed at his head. Soon the driver of the forklift had joined his partner and leveled his own weapon at Sullivan.
    Sullivan kicked out but failed to knock either of them to the ground. Instead, he was answered by a series of kicks against his back and stomach. Crying out, Sullivan tried to defend himself, but the combined effect of all his various injuries had weakened him. He allowed himself to be dragged from the alley and into the warehouse where he was thrown into and handcuffed to a chair. He lost consciousness shortly thereafter.
     
    SULLIVAN COULD HEAR Frank Allen’s voice. He smiled. The voice grew louder, angrier. He opened his eyes and remembered his situation. His head was pounding and his vision still blurry.
    He could make out Allen standing in front of another man. “I don’t have anything else to give you, Brooks.”
    “If I’d known you wanted me to help you get Richard Sullivan, I never would have done it for that price.”
    “It’s irrelevant. I have him now, you did your job and you’re released.”
    Sullivan watched as Brooks’s body tensed. He could tell that Allen saw it, too. In the space of half a second, both men drew their weapons. Sullivan heard two shots go off almost simultaneously and watched helplessly as both men fell to the floor.
    The gunfire echoing through the cavernous warehouse made the pain in his head excruciating. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, both men were dragging themselves up. One of them—Sullivan couldn’t tell which—was yelling obscenities. As he watched, one of them lifted his weapon and fired. The other man fell back onto the floor. The standing man fired three more shots into the body of the dead man.
    The pain in his head was too much. Sullivan lost consciousness again.
    He couldn’t have been out for more than a few minutes, however, as when he opened his eyes he could see Frank Allen standing in front of him, clutching a bloody handkerchief to the side of his torso.
    “Rick,” Allen said through gritted teeth, “I need… help.”
    Allen fumbled with the handcuff keys as he stepped around behind the chair. Sullivan felt the shackle around one wrist loosen, then the other. He pulled himself free and turned to look at his friend. Allen was on his knees.
    Sullivan scrambled over to Allen and pulled up his shirt. He could see both entry and exit wounds in Allen’s side, just below his rib cage.
    “The bullet went through, Frank. It doesn’t look like it would have hit any organs, but I have to stop the bleeding. I’m calling an ambulance.”
    “No,” Allen grunted. “I can’t….”
    “It’s our only option, Frank.”
    Allen raised his hand and Sullivan saw that he still had his gun. With the darkness and his concussion, he had missed it.
    “Stand up,” said Allen.
    Sullivan followed Allen’s order. He was too weak to fight. So was Allen, but with a gun in his hand, he didn’t need to.
    “Step away.”
    Sullivan took a few paces back.
    Allen struggled to his feet. “Turn around.”
    As Sullivan turned, he saw for the first time that a freighter stood at the center of the warehouse. His head injury had to be worse than he thought. There were too many things he was missing.
    Allen forced Sullivan to walk toward the freighter. The side