The Point by Gerard Brennan Page B

dividing door. Brian looked to the knife block on the kitchen counter. Five good blades, only a little out of grasp. He reached out, could have had them drawn and ready. But he shook his head. He couldn’t stab somebody. No way. He was not a killer.
    “O’Rourke wants to see Paul,” the skinhead said.
    “You couldn’t have knocked?” Brian asked. “Phoned maybe?”
    “O’Rourke is a serious man. He calls you once. After that, I arrive.” He rolled his big shiny head on his thick muscled neck. “So, where is he?”
    “Out.”
    The skinhead pulled back his jacket to reveal a chrome pistol in a shoulder holster.
    “I hope your next answer’s a little better.” He let go of his jacket and it fell back into place. “When’s he back?”
    “Soon.”
    “That’s a little better.” He smiled at Brian. “You going to put the kettle on?”
    Brian flicked on the already full kettle. The skinhead continued to smile and unnerve the hell out of Brian.
    “What did he do wrong?” Brian asked, desperate to get the skinhead talking and wipe away his seemingly friendly grin.
    “Not for me to say.”
    Brian nodded. “Fair enough. Probably better I don’t know anyway. Milk and sugar?”
    “Just milk.”
    “Sweet enough, are you?”
    “Fucking fruit, are you?”
    And Brian felt a little bit better. You knew where you stood with an attitude like that.
    The skinhead had stationed himself in front of the fridge. Brian went to gently nudge the guy aside. He slapped Brian’s arm away aggressively. The force of the slap twisted Brian at the waist and he threw out his other arm in search of a steadying force. His hand landed on the skinhead. Slipped inside his jacket. A pickpocket instinct took over and Brian snagged the skinhead’s pistol. He stepped back and raised the gun.
    The heft of the pistol sent a surge of power through Brian’s core. But, even armed and dangerous, he couldn’t keep the nerves out of his voice.  “I was just trying to get the milk, you dickhead.”
     
    Here Comes Trouble
     
    O’Rourke stared across his desk at Charlie’s slumped corpse. The dead weakling sickened him. He’d left behind a wife and a kid because he couldn’t manage his gambling. Fucking loser. The world was a better place without him.
    He checked his watch and considered calling Owen to see if he’d caught up with Paul. Then he heard the clatter of hurried footsteps and yelling. The commotion came from the yard in front of his building. His front door opened. The footsteps sounded in his corridor. Then Paul burst into the office, screaming with his hands in the air.
    “Richard, Richard!” Paul said. “Watch out. They’re trying to pull a move on you.”
    “What?”
    “No time. They’re coming!”
    O’Rourke jumped to his feet and flipped his big office desk on its side. Paul scrabbled around the makeshift cover and hunched down beside O’Rourke.
    O’Rourke ripped the Velcro-fastened sawn-off shotgun from the underside of his desk. He pumped it then turned to Paul. Noticed fresh facial wounds and a nasty burn on the side of his neck. He grabbed Paul’s upper arm.
    “Who is it?” O’Rourke asked. “The Newry crew?”
    “Don’t know. They grabbed me off the street earlier. Tried to get me to lead them to you.”
    “Well you’ve done that now, haven’t you?”
    “But only so I could warn you. Anybody else would have left you to get fucked.”
    The rumble of feet pounding linoleum filled the corridor again. A big yeti in a suit entered noisily. O’Rourke stood up and emptied both barrels. The yeti took one in the chest and one in the face. He went down. Revealed a blood-spattered Woodstock reject. The hippy howled and raised a huge automatic pistol.
    He unloaded half a clip. The rounds slammed into the reinforced desktop. O’Rourke, hunkered down and shielded, reloaded his sawn-off.
     
    Warning Shot
     
    Brian held the skinhead at gunpoint. The skinhead took a step forward. Brian thumbed back the hammer.