Undefeated At Sixteen

So I thought it might be fun to write a section of a novel from a male perspective, such as Max, just to see what you guys might think about it! Tell me your thoughts if you like the difference, or whether you would prefer I stick to Serena's literary exploits!

Max was gripping his gun defensively, waiting for something to jump out at him from the shadows. He had heard a scratching noise inside the caravan, but it had fallen silent when he whipped his gun out. Max was on edge. All he had to do was find his dangerous adversary in this maze of trucks and caravans, but it was beginning to look more difficult than he had thought.

Cautiously, Max tucked his Walther PPK into its holster and crept around the corner. The dark building yard was like a ghost town, utterly silent and spooky. Not that Max was scared or anything. He was one of the best teen agents MI5 had ever had; his self-defence skills were beyond compare.

“I’ve got this,” Max chanted to himself. He took a deep breath as he skulked through the dingy passages, sticking to the wall as much as he could. His footsteps were echoing, amplified by the corrugated iron surrounding him.

There was a crash behind Max and he spun round to face three grownups, all fallen out of a side door and picking themselves up off the floor. They had weapons in hand and were leering threateningly. The first monster came at Max with a jagged knife in his fist but Max was quick to wrestle it to the floor and knock the thug down with a blow from the butt of his gun. As Max recovered, another assailant leapt with his legs aimed at his head. Max only just ducked in time but the last man was waiting to make a move and dealt him a punch straight in the face.

Thrown backwards, Max was unable to defend himself from the onslaught. He felt a foot being driven into his stomach and he doubled over in pain. Max returned with a strong fist into one guy’s jaw. The adult flew back and collided with the wall, hitting his head and tumbling to the floor unconscious.

Then it was one on one. The final attacker seemed to back away but then he raised his deadly blade. Max rushed at him, closing the gap. He hit the goon once, twice, and kicked him in the nuts. As the enemy crumpled, he pulled Max to the floor with him. With a groan of anger, the man reached for his throat and began to squeeze. Max panicked. His arms flailed uselessly as the jerk crushed his windpipe. 

Suddenly, there was an opportunity. Max struck flesh: as his eyesight started to blur, he felt for a face, found an eye, and immediately thrust his thumb in, gouging out the jelly-like organ. The man let go at once, pressing his hand to his face in pain. Max took his moment, seized his Walther and shot the thug in the head, killing him instantly. 

Max holstered his gun and touched a bloody gash on his cheek. He shook his head to clear his mind and looked at the damage. After fights like these when a fifteen year old boy was the only one left standing, Max knew he had a gift. The first man he had taken down began to stir, and Max walked calmly towards him and knelt right overhead, his knee pressing into a muscular abdomen.

“Where’s Bratiano?” Max demanded.

The man’s eyes travelled up to his face with a look of utter loathing. “I won’t tell you shit,” He snarled in broken English.

Max pressed his knee into the guy’s groin more forcefully. “Tell me,” he growled. “Now.”

The man gulped and a pulsing vein appeared on his neck as the pain intensified. Finally he succumbed, red in the face. “Okay, okay! I’ll tell you! He’s in warehouse seven, in the basement…”

Wordlessly Max pulled the man’s head up and smashed it against the gravel underfoot. He hoisted the three bodies back through the side door into the darkened caravan and locked them in, taking two guns and enough magazines to fill his enormous pockets. He waited for a few seconds, listening, and once he was sure the coast was clear, he scarpered.

Pressing himself low to the ground, Max moved swiftly. He made for the other end of the yard, where the warehouses stood in a uniform row along the back fence. There, that was warehouse five. And next to it was number six. That had to mean that the lucky warehouse was just…

A light flicked on in the seventh warehouse, Max could see a glow under the threshold. He cursed his luck and flung himself back into the shadows as a group of silhouettes opened the door and walked out. They were speaking fast Romanian but Max could just about make out the gist of their conversation.

“The diamonds will arrive by morning,” one figure was saying. “You can exchange them with the aubergines at the gala.” Wait – that wasn’t right. Max must have mistranslated something. He backtracked through what he’d heard but to no avail.

Another voice spoke, gruff and confident, “We must get the missile back from the Albanians at the gala. The plan must work.” Max shook his head, angry with himself. Of course, he had mistranslated Albanian for aubergine. Only a rookie dumbass would make a mistake like that, Max scolded himself.

As the group moved further out of the light, Max could make out the distinct profile of Uorsin Bratiano, renegade leader of the Romanian branch of Akullatt. He was one sordid son of a bitch and he deserved everything that was coming to him.

Max’s original plan had been hindered by this new development. He had meant to creep into the basement, incapacitate the enemy and get as close to Bratiano as possible, but now Max would have to wing it. He had to think fast or he would lose sight of his target. Now that Max was out in the open, he had a better chance of escaping - but only if he was careful. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for what he assumed would be immediate death.

Max emerged from the shadows, brandishing his own Walther and a semi-auto he’d confiscated from the three men. Without missing a beat, he took down four big guys with well-aimed shots and shocked the group into forming a protective circle around their villainous leader. Max mowed down another two figures and propelled himself forward to seek out Bratiano. He no longer cared for his own safety.

There were twenty metres between him and the circle. Ten metres. Five. Max blasted through, guns blazing around him, and grabbed Bratiano by the neck. He held a gun up threateningly, waiting for the men around him to lower their guns.

But Max had miscalculated; there was a noise behind him, a roar, and with blinding pain in the back of his head Max blacked out.