Street, or retreat to the bedroom and opt for climbing out a window. It would be the bedroom. It would also provide a better defensive position, for they couldn’t attack from behind.
On the floor, the guy groaned, and Mike kicked him in the ribs. He grunted again. Mike retreated to the bedroom. He shoved the twin bed around Jasmine’s body and jammed it up against the door, hoping it would at least slow down Hark’s men.
The bedroom had two windows, the one on the right looking over their dirt patch of a yard, and the left one looking over the Hoolihans’ driveway next door. He looked out the right window and saw one of them, tall as a smokestack, rounding the rear of the house. He went to the opposite window and saw a shorter, skinnier one in a leather jacket coming up the Hoolihans’ driveway. Both exits were blocked, and soon they would figure out he was in the bedroom and come knocking at the door.
No sooner did he think that when someone smacked the door. The twin bed screeched on the floor, moved maybe three inches. Another few good hits and the bed would be across the room.
He would take his chances with short and skinny. He went back to the driveway window. The dimness of the room provided him cover from the outside. Another whack at the door.
He reached over and unlatched the window lock. The guy was looking down the driveway, toward the backyard. The death smell in the room grew thick. Mike lifted the window. Now the guy in the driveway turned. He opened his mouth to yell and reached inside his jacket and Mike shot him in the leg, just below the kneecap. He went down howling and holding his leg. Shit. Didn’t want to opt for gunplay, but it was me or him , Mike thought. That would draw the Buffalo PD for sure. Maybe he could claim self-defense. And just try and explain having a loaded .45 and no permit.
He hoisted himself out the window and dropped to the ground. The guy in the leather jacket was now spinning around on the ground like a crazy break-dancer, holding his leg and moaning. Inside, he heard the bedroom door give with a crack.
He’d run for the Hoolihans’ backyard, hop the fence, and cut through St. Stephen’s parking lot. Now the guy on the ground was yelling in a high shriek, “He’s here! The driveway!”
Mike had no stomach for putting another bullet in the man, so he ran down the driveway, hurtling one of the Hoolihans’ kids’ bikes, a blue Huffy. He reached the end of the house. The gated picket fence was in view, and beyond that, St. Stephen’s parking lot and freedom. He’d get away, then figure out how to find Mom.
From the corner of his eye he saw a blur and then the guy slammed into him. He flew sideways. The gun dropped to the ground. He hit the concrete, shoulder stinging, and rolled three times. He thought a small bus had taken a detour just to flatten him.
He looked up to see smokestack standing over him. No wonder he’d been flattened. The big man wore a skintight ribbed turtleneck that hugged his torso, the muscles looking like sculpted ivory with the sweater. No waist, V-shaped, wearing loose black pants and engineer boots.
“Those steroids work wonders,” Mike said and sat up, his shoulder singing with pain.
“Shut the fuck up,” big and ugly said. He stomped on Mike’s toes and for a moment the pain was so bad Mike thought he might swallow his tongue. Mike pulled his foot away, his toes feeling hot and numb. Looking around, he saw the .45 on the ground, about ten feet away. The goon took out a chrome revolver and pointed it at Mike.
Mike put up his hands. “All right, I take back the steroid comment.”
The goon cocked the hammer on the revolver. Mike thought it prudent to shut his mouth.
He looked at the Hoolihans’ rear porch. No one out there, only a silver ashtray on the railing and a Schmidt’s beer can. The lights were dim inside, which meant no help from them. The number of crimes that went unsolved in this neighborhood was a joke. People
On the floor, the guy groaned, and Mike kicked him in the ribs. He grunted again. Mike retreated to the bedroom. He shoved the twin bed around Jasmine’s body and jammed it up against the door, hoping it would at least slow down Hark’s men.
The bedroom had two windows, the one on the right looking over their dirt patch of a yard, and the left one looking over the Hoolihans’ driveway next door. He looked out the right window and saw one of them, tall as a smokestack, rounding the rear of the house. He went to the opposite window and saw a shorter, skinnier one in a leather jacket coming up the Hoolihans’ driveway. Both exits were blocked, and soon they would figure out he was in the bedroom and come knocking at the door.
No sooner did he think that when someone smacked the door. The twin bed screeched on the floor, moved maybe three inches. Another few good hits and the bed would be across the room.
He would take his chances with short and skinny. He went back to the driveway window. The dimness of the room provided him cover from the outside. Another whack at the door.
He reached over and unlatched the window lock. The guy was looking down the driveway, toward the backyard. The death smell in the room grew thick. Mike lifted the window. Now the guy in the driveway turned. He opened his mouth to yell and reached inside his jacket and Mike shot him in the leg, just below the kneecap. He went down howling and holding his leg. Shit. Didn’t want to opt for gunplay, but it was me or him , Mike thought. That would draw the Buffalo PD for sure. Maybe he could claim self-defense. And just try and explain having a loaded .45 and no permit.
He hoisted himself out the window and dropped to the ground. The guy in the leather jacket was now spinning around on the ground like a crazy break-dancer, holding his leg and moaning. Inside, he heard the bedroom door give with a crack.
He’d run for the Hoolihans’ backyard, hop the fence, and cut through St. Stephen’s parking lot. Now the guy on the ground was yelling in a high shriek, “He’s here! The driveway!”
Mike had no stomach for putting another bullet in the man, so he ran down the driveway, hurtling one of the Hoolihans’ kids’ bikes, a blue Huffy. He reached the end of the house. The gated picket fence was in view, and beyond that, St. Stephen’s parking lot and freedom. He’d get away, then figure out how to find Mom.
From the corner of his eye he saw a blur and then the guy slammed into him. He flew sideways. The gun dropped to the ground. He hit the concrete, shoulder stinging, and rolled three times. He thought a small bus had taken a detour just to flatten him.
He looked up to see smokestack standing over him. No wonder he’d been flattened. The big man wore a skintight ribbed turtleneck that hugged his torso, the muscles looking like sculpted ivory with the sweater. No waist, V-shaped, wearing loose black pants and engineer boots.
“Those steroids work wonders,” Mike said and sat up, his shoulder singing with pain.
“Shut the fuck up,” big and ugly said. He stomped on Mike’s toes and for a moment the pain was so bad Mike thought he might swallow his tongue. Mike pulled his foot away, his toes feeling hot and numb. Looking around, he saw the .45 on the ground, about ten feet away. The goon took out a chrome revolver and pointed it at Mike.
Mike put up his hands. “All right, I take back the steroid comment.”
The goon cocked the hammer on the revolver. Mike thought it prudent to shut his mouth.
He looked at the Hoolihans’ rear porch. No one out there, only a silver ashtray on the railing and a Schmidt’s beer can. The lights were dim inside, which meant no help from them. The number of crimes that went unsolved in this neighborhood was a joke. People
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