swear, Hunter. Really.”
“Shut up.”
He pushed past her and looked into the glove compartment. Found Matt’s phone and the battery. Assembled the phone and turned it on. He kept his eyes on Lydia, who was shivering and crying.
He played the messages. Erased the first one from Lydia. Listened to the beginnings of another five, all from the previous night, all her yelling at Matt to come home and bring the money. Then, there was one from that that afternoon. She was whispering.
“Matt, sweetie. I hope you get this. As soon as you hear this message, get the fuck out of Reno. Hunter wants whatever money he can get from you, and your car. He’s already had a guy killed that one of his friends thought was you. I am so sorry. This is all my fault. Please just leave. I only hate you a little okay?”
Hunter dropped the phone. He smashed it with his foot. He reached out his hand.
“Give me your purse, cunt.”
She clutched it tighter.
“Why? That was the only gun.”
Hunter reached his hand out farther and took a step toward her. He raised his eyebrows.
Lydia handed him the purse. He put the gun on top of the cloth convertible top and searched through the bag. He found the envelope of money.
“Just as I thought.” He put the envelope in the plastic bag. Lydia stood, shaking.
Hunter grabbed Lydia by her hair and dragged her back to the trunk. Lydia struggled weakly for a moment and then went limp.
“When I’m done with you, they’ll find your dead body along with your husband’s in the trunk. I like that. It works, it works real well.”
He grabbed Lydia hard by the front of her shirt, picked her up off the pavement, and jammed her on top of Matt’s body. Took two of Matt’s towels and wrapped them around his fists.
“This won’t be like with the tire guy.” He smiled broadly.
As Lydia screamed, he leaned over and punched her again and again in the face. Broke her nose. Shattered the bones in both cheeks. Smelled the shit and urine leave her body. Straightened up to look down and study his work. He laughed. He leaned down and used both hands to break her windpipe. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tanner grab the gun off of the top of the car.
“Nephew,” Hunter said.
Tanner was crying.
“Uncle.”
Hunter turned toward Tanner and took a step. Tanner did not hesitate. He shot Hunter in the chest. Hunter was forced back several feet by the blast from the powerful gun and then fell on his back. Sobbing now, Tanner walked over to Hunter and shot him in the face. Hunter was still. Tanner took the Silverado keys out of Hunter’s pants pocket.
Tanner went to the trunk and looked in at his mother. She was dead. He stared into her open eyes. He stopped crying. Looked inside the bag and saw all the money. Closed the trunk lid. Holding the gun and the money, he turned to walk to the Silverado.
“Hold it there kid,” he heard a man shout.
Tanner turned toward the stairway. Three policemen were crouched and pointing their guns at him.
“Put down the gun,” one of them shouted.
Eager for battle, Tanner lifted Herman’s pistol to fire. All three cops shot at once. Only one of the bullets hit him. It barely grazed his left forearm. Just like in a fight, everything seemed to slow down. He got off two shots at the closest policeman, both in the chest. As that man went down, he quickly shot the other one in the throat and he went down too. Turned to shoot the third cop, but a fourth one came out of nowhere, from Tanner’s blind side.
This man was a better shot than his colleagues, and his bullet pierced Tanner’s heart. Tanner fell, and then it was quiet for a moment until the sirens got close.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mike Monson
Mike Monson wanted to be a writer all his life. He tried many times but was never happy with the result. Finally, in 2012, at 56-years-old, he got the urge again. Feeling like he had nothing to lose, he began writing with free abandon, and over the next 12 months had written
“Shut up.”
He pushed past her and looked into the glove compartment. Found Matt’s phone and the battery. Assembled the phone and turned it on. He kept his eyes on Lydia, who was shivering and crying.
He played the messages. Erased the first one from Lydia. Listened to the beginnings of another five, all from the previous night, all her yelling at Matt to come home and bring the money. Then, there was one from that that afternoon. She was whispering.
“Matt, sweetie. I hope you get this. As soon as you hear this message, get the fuck out of Reno. Hunter wants whatever money he can get from you, and your car. He’s already had a guy killed that one of his friends thought was you. I am so sorry. This is all my fault. Please just leave. I only hate you a little okay?”
Hunter dropped the phone. He smashed it with his foot. He reached out his hand.
“Give me your purse, cunt.”
She clutched it tighter.
“Why? That was the only gun.”
Hunter reached his hand out farther and took a step toward her. He raised his eyebrows.
Lydia handed him the purse. He put the gun on top of the cloth convertible top and searched through the bag. He found the envelope of money.
“Just as I thought.” He put the envelope in the plastic bag. Lydia stood, shaking.
Hunter grabbed Lydia by her hair and dragged her back to the trunk. Lydia struggled weakly for a moment and then went limp.
“When I’m done with you, they’ll find your dead body along with your husband’s in the trunk. I like that. It works, it works real well.”
He grabbed Lydia hard by the front of her shirt, picked her up off the pavement, and jammed her on top of Matt’s body. Took two of Matt’s towels and wrapped them around his fists.
“This won’t be like with the tire guy.” He smiled broadly.
As Lydia screamed, he leaned over and punched her again and again in the face. Broke her nose. Shattered the bones in both cheeks. Smelled the shit and urine leave her body. Straightened up to look down and study his work. He laughed. He leaned down and used both hands to break her windpipe. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tanner grab the gun off of the top of the car.
“Nephew,” Hunter said.
Tanner was crying.
“Uncle.”
Hunter turned toward Tanner and took a step. Tanner did not hesitate. He shot Hunter in the chest. Hunter was forced back several feet by the blast from the powerful gun and then fell on his back. Sobbing now, Tanner walked over to Hunter and shot him in the face. Hunter was still. Tanner took the Silverado keys out of Hunter’s pants pocket.
Tanner went to the trunk and looked in at his mother. She was dead. He stared into her open eyes. He stopped crying. Looked inside the bag and saw all the money. Closed the trunk lid. Holding the gun and the money, he turned to walk to the Silverado.
“Hold it there kid,” he heard a man shout.
Tanner turned toward the stairway. Three policemen were crouched and pointing their guns at him.
“Put down the gun,” one of them shouted.
Eager for battle, Tanner lifted Herman’s pistol to fire. All three cops shot at once. Only one of the bullets hit him. It barely grazed his left forearm. Just like in a fight, everything seemed to slow down. He got off two shots at the closest policeman, both in the chest. As that man went down, he quickly shot the other one in the throat and he went down too. Turned to shoot the third cop, but a fourth one came out of nowhere, from Tanner’s blind side.
This man was a better shot than his colleagues, and his bullet pierced Tanner’s heart. Tanner fell, and then it was quiet for a moment until the sirens got close.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mike Monson
Mike Monson wanted to be a writer all his life. He tried many times but was never happy with the result. Finally, in 2012, at 56-years-old, he got the urge again. Feeling like he had nothing to lose, he began writing with free abandon, and over the next 12 months had written
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