Never Play Another Man's Game by Mike Knowles Page A

THIRTEEN
    T he AK had punched three dots into D.B.’s guts as though it had let a sentence trail off. The first bullet had entered just under his right lung and the third looked like it had bored into his pelvis.
    â€œLittle fucker shot me. I was wrong. The job had three problems.”
    â€œForget that, we need to get out of here.”
    â€œNo problem. I’m in the mood for a fuckin’ jog.”
    I could hear sirens in the distance. I checked my watch and saw that thirteen minutes had passed. The sound was the first squad cars responding to the scene less than a kilometre away. Rob and Donna must have heard the sounds too. They frantically mumbled under the tape like they were doing a bad duet. I told them to shut the fuck up, and saw that they had both wet themselves.
    â€œStay here,” I said to D.B.
    â€œNo problem, bro. Take your fuckin’ time. Hey, Rob, you and your lady shut up. If I’m not complaining, you sure as hell can’t.”
    I ran out to the lot and saw the Jeep Ruby had been driving outside the garage. The engine was still running. She had probably planned to follow the van to the safe house after her boy killed me and D.B. along with the guard and his missus. Shooting at Ruby and Rick had made them think on the fly; it was something the con artists weren’t used to. They chose flight over fight and piled in the van, which was the fastest way out. With the automatic rifle, they could have killed D.B. and used the truck for cover while they took a run at me. They had better firepower and the numbers to do the job — a little patience was all that had been missing.
    I got in the Jeep and reversed into the garage. I was moving so fast that D.B. brought his hands up in fear of getting run down. I got out and opened the trunk hatch. The seats went down with a little fidgeting and I hoisted D.B. inside. He screamed when I moved him. The scream wasn’t through bared teeth; D.B.’s mouth was open wide and strings of spit billowed off his lips with the force of the yell. I slammed the lid and pulled out of the garage. The Jeep idled for ten seconds while I closed the door and then we were on the road.
    â€œPress on the wounds as best you can, D.B.”
    â€œThree bullets, two hands, Wilson. Do the fucking math.”
    I pulled off the road into a Walmart parking lot. I took the handicap spot and said wait here to D.B.
    D.B. laughed and then groaned. “Where the fuck am I going to go?” As I got out of the car I heard him say, “Get me some Smarties, bro.”
    The bastard was tough, but blood loss didn’t care about tough. I ran inside and bought fifteen Tensor bandages meant for sprains along with some tape and gauze. I was back in the car within three minutes and D.B. was barely conscious. Shock was teaming up with the blood loss to put him out.
    I drove around to the side of the building where there was only an emergency exit, pulled to the curb, and climbed over the seats to D.B.
    â€œHold the wound under your lung,” I said while I unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants.
    â€œYou got it,” D.B. whispered.
    I taped huge amounts of gauze over each of the wounds and then ripped open the boxes of Tensor bandages with my teeth.
    â€œYou got a guy you can call? A doctor for the Thieves that can keep his mouth shut?”
    â€œGet my phone,” he whispered.
    I pulled the disposable phone I gave him for the job out of the inner pocket of his leather jacket and let him dial the number while I worked the bandages around his torso. He screamed loud enough to hurt my ears and told someone on the phone to hold on. I took the phone and held it against my shoulder with my ear so I could keep wrapping.
    â€œD.B., what the hell is going on? D.B.?”
    â€œYou a friend of D.B.’s?” I asked.
    â€œWho the fuck is this?”
    â€œDoesn’t matter. You a friend?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œHe’s been shot.