Easy now.
One shot, one kill.
Lakeland. Lakeland?
Status check. Which one is he? Which one, damn it? Blue shirt...blue
shirt...guide me, brother. I don’t see him. No, hold up. Target...acquired.
Distance locked. Wind? The wind, Lakeland, which way is the goddamn wind
blowing? Okay. Southeast, ten knots. Got it. Adjusting...ready. I said
ready. Am I shooting today or not? What? Stand down? Why? What girl?
Never mind, I got her. Get out of the way, sweetie. Move now. Go on. Go.
That’s it, hug Daddy and get out of my shot.
One...two...three...four...five... We’re good to go, Lakeland? Roger.
Trigger ready. Another notch in the belt in three...two...
Randall heard nothing, but
his sixth sense felt upward movement on the stairs.
He anchored the sole of his
boot against the plywood and shoved himself forward, feeling the sharp
splinters digging into his side and down his left arm. He slung his handgun
over the lip and was surprised to see how close The Devil Himself had gotten.
With his back against the
stairway wall, creeping sideways up the steps, they were almost face-to-face,
inches away from each other, by the time Randall aimed and fired. The subtle chuff of air escaping the silencer sounded like a sledgehammer striking a pillow as
The Devil Himself recoiled and fell backwards and down the steps, striking his
head against the windowsill.
Positive that he was
unconscious, or dead, Randall swung his legs around, rolled, and dropped into
the opening. He barreled down the steps and kicked the firearm out of his
attacker’s limp hand, checked for a pulse, an entry wound, found them both, and
then pulled a zip tie from his back pocket and secured him at the wrists. He
did the same with the ankles.
Knocked out, bound, and with
blood pooling underneath his shoulder, Randall thought the guy almost looked pitiable
as he knelt, placing the barrel tip against a pulsating vein stretched across
the temple of The Devil Himself.
Randall applied pressure to
the trigger, but didn’t squeeze.
Rain check, Devil. We
mess up my wife’s clean floors, we’re both in a heap of trouble .
Instead of immediately
eliminating an enemy combatant and ensuring that he wouldn’t be the rabbit in
the next round, he decided to probe him for some information, supposing The
Devil Himself would give it. No harm in trying.
“Hey,” he said, tapping the
barrel hard against the man’s skull. “Wake up. I said wake up, dickweed.”
The Devil Himself stirred,
snorted, and opened his eyes. Instinct took over as he tried to react to
Randall’s presence. He shifted his weight, trying to roll, move, get away,
then realized he wasn’t going anywhere with his hands and feet locked together.
“You win,” he said. “Get it
over with.”
“Hang on,” Randall said.
“Not just yet. I think you and me might have a one-on-one, maybe a little
debrief before you meet up with your namesake. How’s that sound?”
“Pull the trigger, hillbilly.
I’m not telling you shit.”
Randall started with a jovial
attitude, testing the waters. “Look here, man. You wanna die a quick,
honorable death, or wind up worm food with poop in your drawers and piss
running down your leg? I got no problem with either, but I reckon you won’t
have too much fun with option two unless you tell me what I want to know. I
got all night. Hell, I might even hang out here and let them other sons of
bitches come and try to get me, too. I can shove a stick up all your asses and
plant you out there in the field, start up your new careers as scarecrows.
How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like a party to me.”
“Does it now? You sure about
that? I mean, suit yourself, brainiac. Up to you.” Randall waved the .45
around. “If I was in your shoes, and if I had my druthers, I’d rather the
gentleman with the upper hand pull the plug on me. I’m not
One shot, one kill.
Lakeland. Lakeland?
Status check. Which one is he? Which one, damn it? Blue shirt...blue
shirt...guide me, brother. I don’t see him. No, hold up. Target...acquired.
Distance locked. Wind? The wind, Lakeland, which way is the goddamn wind
blowing? Okay. Southeast, ten knots. Got it. Adjusting...ready. I said
ready. Am I shooting today or not? What? Stand down? Why? What girl?
Never mind, I got her. Get out of the way, sweetie. Move now. Go on. Go.
That’s it, hug Daddy and get out of my shot.
One...two...three...four...five... We’re good to go, Lakeland? Roger.
Trigger ready. Another notch in the belt in three...two...
Randall heard nothing, but
his sixth sense felt upward movement on the stairs.
He anchored the sole of his
boot against the plywood and shoved himself forward, feeling the sharp
splinters digging into his side and down his left arm. He slung his handgun
over the lip and was surprised to see how close The Devil Himself had gotten.
With his back against the
stairway wall, creeping sideways up the steps, they were almost face-to-face,
inches away from each other, by the time Randall aimed and fired. The subtle chuff of air escaping the silencer sounded like a sledgehammer striking a pillow as
The Devil Himself recoiled and fell backwards and down the steps, striking his
head against the windowsill.
Positive that he was
unconscious, or dead, Randall swung his legs around, rolled, and dropped into
the opening. He barreled down the steps and kicked the firearm out of his
attacker’s limp hand, checked for a pulse, an entry wound, found them both, and
then pulled a zip tie from his back pocket and secured him at the wrists. He
did the same with the ankles.
Knocked out, bound, and with
blood pooling underneath his shoulder, Randall thought the guy almost looked pitiable
as he knelt, placing the barrel tip against a pulsating vein stretched across
the temple of The Devil Himself.
Randall applied pressure to
the trigger, but didn’t squeeze.
Rain check, Devil. We
mess up my wife’s clean floors, we’re both in a heap of trouble .
Instead of immediately
eliminating an enemy combatant and ensuring that he wouldn’t be the rabbit in
the next round, he decided to probe him for some information, supposing The
Devil Himself would give it. No harm in trying.
“Hey,” he said, tapping the
barrel hard against the man’s skull. “Wake up. I said wake up, dickweed.”
The Devil Himself stirred,
snorted, and opened his eyes. Instinct took over as he tried to react to
Randall’s presence. He shifted his weight, trying to roll, move, get away,
then realized he wasn’t going anywhere with his hands and feet locked together.
“You win,” he said. “Get it
over with.”
“Hang on,” Randall said.
“Not just yet. I think you and me might have a one-on-one, maybe a little
debrief before you meet up with your namesake. How’s that sound?”
“Pull the trigger, hillbilly.
I’m not telling you shit.”
Randall started with a jovial
attitude, testing the waters. “Look here, man. You wanna die a quick,
honorable death, or wind up worm food with poop in your drawers and piss
running down your leg? I got no problem with either, but I reckon you won’t
have too much fun with option two unless you tell me what I want to know. I
got all night. Hell, I might even hang out here and let them other sons of
bitches come and try to get me, too. I can shove a stick up all your asses and
plant you out there in the field, start up your new careers as scarecrows.
How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like a party to me.”
“Does it now? You sure about
that? I mean, suit yourself, brainiac. Up to you.” Randall waved the .45
around. “If I was in your shoes, and if I had my druthers, I’d rather the
gentleman with the upper hand pull the plug on me. I’m not
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