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 fucking 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 fuck had all ten rounds missed? He cocked back his arm and hurled the Luger downrange at Porter, screaming, “You fucking asshole!”
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 fuck 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 fuck is that little thing? A .22?
He let out a laugh. Then he yelled, “You assholes 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.
The barkeep, after ten minutes, finally brought their beer in two Pilsner glasses.
“I’m dying,” Luther said, “I won’t be able to sleep tonight. That business at the range just gave me blue balls.”
“Relax,” Javier said. “I got a little package in the trunk. I’m willing to share.”
Luther’s heart lifted, a burst of hope flooding into that darkness like pure sunshine.
“Really?”
Javier nodded, sipped his beer. “Can’t kill her, though. But we can have some fun. Cut on her a little, if that’s your thing.”
Luther smiled. “That’s my thing.”
“We just gotta wait for these pendojo cops to get out of here. Place is lousy with them. One dumb gringo gets shot a few times, it’s like the fucking Normandy invasion. Back where I grew up, in Sonora, a whole family could get wiped out, you’d get maybe one cop, and he’d come by a few days later.”
“Hmm,” Luther said, a smile slowly forming across his thin, colorless lips. “I should definitely check that place out.”
Clay
He’d secretly always wanted to get shot. The ultimate bragging right. Pull up your shirt, show the patch of white where some doc had dug out a twisted piece of metal.
But as Clay sat in the ambulance, he had this awful feeling that stopping a .22 round didn’t actually count. His deputy buddies back in Durango would probably make fun of him for it.
At least the pretty lady Lieutenant was sympathetic.
“You’d better give him two Band-Aids for that big boo-boo,” she told the EMT.
Ouch.
He’d laughed it off, but the worst of it was how bad it actually hurt. He’d been shot full of adrenaline back at the range, but now that everything had settled down, the pain was really starting to get to him. He’d waved off the painkiller he’d been offered in front of Jack Daniels.
He could wait a little longer.
Just a little .22 caliber gunshot.
Not a problem.
“Does it hurt?” Jack asked.
“Naw. Maybe a little. You want to kiss it and make it better?” Clay asked.
For a moment, it looked like she was going to go for it. Clay even went so far as to tilt his chin to the side.
But then something crossed over her eyes, and she pulled back, instead offering her hand.
“I’ve got to get on my way. Have to be back at work tomorrow, and didn’t have any plans to stay overnight.”
Clay went for it, hell bent for leather. “I’ve got a room, in the hotel.”
Jack smiled. “Thanks for the offer. But I’m with someone already. Thanks for an…interesting night. Tell your brother I said hello.”
And then she was gone.
Five seconds later, Clay called for the EMT and demanded a pain shot.
Jack
I was tired, my legs aching from the chase. The Gucci pumps I wore made my calves look killer, but were shit for running in.
Clay and I had given pursuit, but the five shooters had fled into the night, splitting up in all directions. We’d called in the Indianapolis PD, even the Staties. Given statements and physical descriptions of the perps as best we could, but there really wasn’t much to go on.