Blackjack Dead or Alive (The Blackjack Series Book 3) by Ben Bequer, Joshua Hoade Page A

returned with a pair of double-barreled shotguns and a box of shells. He handed one off, and busied himself with sliding shells into the shotgun.
    As I came closer, I could see one man was near seventy and the other was in his late fifties, similar enough to be father and son. A woman watched me from the window of the small home, and I couldn’t imagine how I looked. A bedraggled, washed out, half-dressed giant striding in from the coast. I would be wary, too.
    “Bon dia,” I said, coming within earshot, taking a 50/50 chance that they were Italian rather than French. There was something to the older man’s eyebrows, their thickness perhaps, and the younger man’s prominent nose that gave me the impression that they weren’t French. The younger man responded with rapid fire Italian, rewarding my gamble, but both leveled their weapons at me.
    “Americano,” I said, slowing to a walk, trying to appear less threatening. I had to at least pretend the shotguns scared me. A total lack of fear might spur them to shoot me, and they would panic when I didn’t die. Normals always panicked when guns didn’t work. I wanted them to help me; I needed their water and food, perhaps a bit of clothing. I wanted to get it without resorting to violence, but the most pressing thing was that I walk away from this without giving away that I was a super.
    The older man fired a warning shot at my feet, and I stopped, raising my hands.
    “I’m American,” I yelled, taking a half step back. “My boat sank and I need help.”
    The younger man watched me, shotgun aimed straight at my chest as his elder reloaded. He spoke to me in Italian but, again, it was too fast for me to pick and choose words to try to understand.
    “Help me, please. I’m thirsty and hungry.”
    The old man slammed his shotgun closed after discarding the two shells and aimed at my face. I swore he was going to fire, so I dove to the ground. He could’ve fired the gun into my ear and it wouldn’t have but tickled me, but I wanted to seem vulnerable.
    Still, the younger man motioned me away with his shotgun, and I could discern one word, “AWAY!” They weren’t going to help me, no matter who I was or what my story was. If I wanted help, I would have to take what I wanted from them, and let them waste their shotgun shells on my hardened skin.
    But they might talk to a local constable, unlikely as it might seem for such a remote little village, they might make enough of a fuss that someone might know a tall, dark-haired super had passed this way. It wouldn’t take them long to figure it out I had survived the plane crash.
    Yeah, I had to avoid trouble, if only to make sure I fell through the cracks. I had to stay off their radar, to make sure they had other, more important things to worry about. I stood slowly, backing away, and moved off, circling far around the house to the rest of the village.
    I was tempted to hide until night, then move in and steal what I needed, but my hollow stomach overwhelmed my common sense. I ran into the village, drawing looks from the people that saw me. The place had maybe twenty structures gathered together, with a winding stone road that led up into the mountains and out of sight. I saw one car, a dilapidated old Citroen and four mule driven carts. I made a beeline for the water trough and dug my head in, drinking the foul water and getting a curious look from one of the mules. A young boy watched me, running to his mother’s side when I noticed him.
    “Boat sank,” I said, breathless. “Americano,” I added.
    The woman grabbed her son and moved off quickly, crossing the street and speaking to a group of men that were gathered in front of a small café. One of the guys walked over to me, scratching an itch in his thick mustache.
    “You are American,” he said in pretty good English.
    Nodding, I said, “My sailboat sank a few miles offshore.”
    He looked at my clothing and took off his cap, scratching his head, as if trying