Porter suddenly grabbed his side and hit the deck, flopping face-first onto the concrete and leaving a blood streak, screaming all the way.
“My bad!” Luther yelled, “minus a hundred!”
Clay
“That was a scream,” Clay said. “I’d swear on my sweet Mama’s head that was a scream.”
Rather than wait for the others, Clay rushed the door to the gun shop, smacking into it with his shoulder. It was a bad move; the door was reinforced with steel.
Not a problem. Alice can get in.
He stepped back, drawing Alice out of her holster, taking aim at the deadbolt.
Javier
That pendejo cheater, Javier thought, but it made him grin anyway.
And Luther had done him a favor. The moving target was now moving at a much slower pace, crawling across the floor.
Javier took his time, sighting Porter down the barrel of the brand-spanking new Ruger, and then he put a round into his left elbow.
Porter
He’d been shot by a Crosman air rifle when he was fifteen years old, the BB punching into the back of his left leg. It had felt like a bad bee sting, and his mother had dug out the tiny copper ball with a pair of tweezers while he cried.
This was about a million times worse, and—
FUUUUUCCCCK!
Another round struck his left elbow in a searing blast of pain. The bullet, failing to crack bone, had taken a ride under the skin up his humerus and exited the back of his arm. He forced himself up onto his feet, his left foot throbbing, the bullet lodged between his phalanges, and he screamed through the pain and kept crawling as fast as he could manage, until his hands touched the far wall.
Halfway there. I can make it. If I can just get back up on my feet, I can—
Then another bullet blew off the back of his left heel.
Tequila
What Alice started, Tequila finished, exploding off the balls of his feet and driving his massive left shoulder into the door of the gun shop.
It burst open and he rolled a tight somersault, coming up with both .45s in his fists.
Jack and Clay rushed in after him.
The pop-pop-pop of gunfire was coming from the range.
Alex
She couldn’t believe it, but Porter had tagged the far wall. Since he was all the way on the other side of the range, the shot was difficult, if not impossible. Especially with the short-barreled Ruger and its low-velocity rounds.
She was especially pleased with herself when she clipped the man’s heel.
“Twenty points!” Alex shouted.
Charles
Charles had already decided to pull a Luther on his next turn. Just f**king unload. This time, he aimed at Porter’s face, figuring if he killed him, Alex would win.
He squeezed off ten shots in a blaze of fury, caught up in the excitement, and when his slide locked back, he stared through the haze of gun smoke…
And saw Porter still crawling along.
He’d missed.
Goddamnit! How the f**k had all ten rounds missed? He cocked back his arm and hurled the Luger downrange at Porter, screaming, “You f**king ass**le!”
One lane over, his sister said, “Well, that was stupid.”
Mr. K
He was getting ready to put a round through Mr. Porter’s face when he heard a gunshot behind him.
Much larger caliber.
Was somebody cheating?
He turned to look, and saw an attractive woman in her forties standing behind them holding a Colt .38.
Luther
He was frantically reloading his clip when the deep, deafening crack of a high-caliber firearm exploded behind him.
Who the f**k was cheating?
Javier
When he heard the report of a .38 behind him, he knew instantly that something was wrong…
Jack
I saw the man on the firing range—the owner, Porter, covered in blood, cowering on his knees.
Then I saw the people, five of them, shooting at him.
I fired one shot straight into the ceiling.
“This is the police! Everyone drop your weapons!”
Alex/Luther/Charles/Javier/Mr. K
The police!
Run!
The killers stampeded toward the fire exit, firing behind them as they ran, bursting through the door into the parking lot, and scattering into the cold, dark night.
Clay
Clay felt the tug of hot steel on his thigh.
I’m hit.
He looked down, ready to put pressure on it, then saw the tiny hole in his jeans, forming a quarter-sized dot of blood.
What the f**k is that little thing? A .22?
He let out a laugh. Then he yelled, “You ass**les sure brought the wrong guns to a gun fight!”
He and Jack took off after them.
Porter
Looking up at the fleeing bastards who had turned him into human Swiss cheese, Porter let out a bellowing laugh.
“I’m alive! Son of a bitch, I’m alive!”
He was still laughing when the short, blond man approached him. The man tucked away his guns into the back of his chinos.
“Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you. You saved my life, buddy. Anything you want. Name it. It’s yours.”
“Actually,” the man said, “I want the thirteen large you owe Mr. Dovolanni.”
Porter felt his face sag. “You…you work for…”
“Mr. Dovolanni. Yes. Do you have the money, Mr. Porter?”
Porter shook his head, dumbly.
“If you don’t have the money, I’m supposed to break both of your legs.”
“I’ll have it in a few days,” Porter managed to squeak.
The short man appraised him. “You’re pretty shot up. You need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m hurt bad,” Porter whined. “They shot me a bunch of times. Shouldn’t that be enough for Mr. Dovolanni?”
The short man rubbed his chin, as if considering it. “Maybe. But I’d better break one leg, just to be sure.”
Porter screamed as the short man’s foot came down, and then he blessedly passed out.
Mr. K
By midnight, he had crossed the state line into the backwoods of Kentucky, cruising the dark highways behind the wheel of his Cadillac. He was disappointed in himself, disappointed that he’d taken what had amounted to a stupid risk and left town without collecting his marker.
But…
As much as it pained him to admit…
That was the most fun he’d had in years.
Luther
Sitting at the bar in the Ramada Inn across the street from the giant tent which had held the gun show, Luther ordered the first round for him and Javier.
They’d been lucky to get a seat at the bar. The place was packed with the dealers and attendees who’d come from out-of-state.
A great place to lay low. To blend in. And as much as he knew that’s what they should be doing, it wasn’t what he wanted. The shooting range had only whetted his appetite.