A thunder of boots hitting the floor, metal ringing, and strange men’s yells rang after them.
She looked over her shoulder to be sure the guys were following her, and ran faster when another deafening shot split the air, echoing through the empty store. Mickey and Frank were right on her heels, but Tucker tripped and fell, falling behind. She saw his gun clatter to the floor, sliding away from him.
Shit!
Tarra slid to a stop and turned around, just as four guys popped out at the end of the aisle they’d been spied at. Each of them wore a bandana of the same color somewhere on their body. Either on their head, tied around their wrist, or hanging from a pocket.
She gripped her gun tightly with both hands and lifted her arms—making sure to keep her elbows unlocked—and took aim. Mickey and Frank ran on by.
“Stop,” she yelled at the strangers.
They slid to an abrupt stop, twenty feet from Tucker who was trying to find his feet to get up. He looked over his shoulder to see the men bearing down on him with four guns aimed at his head. A glance at his own gun told him it was too far to reach in time. He turned back to Tarra, a look of horror on his face.
Quickly, he put his hands up, freezing on his knees, facing her.
Tarra took a chance to glance behind her, hoping to see Mickey and Frank stop too, with their own guns, backing her up. But the sorry-assed weasels were still running, looking over their own shoulders in terror at the group that pursued them. A moment later, they turned and ran out the front door.
She was outnumbered.
The young men—barely more than teenagers—surveyed Tarra, undressing her with their eyes, and one in particular had her captured and bedded down in his mind already. He licked his lips as his eyes rolled over her chest and hips. “Put the gun down, lady,” the perverted gang-rat dressed in a dirty once-white wife-beater said. His arms were covered in ink, from shoulders to wrists. “Clearly, you are outnumbered, and you is in our store.”
Tarra shook her head. She wasn’t stupid. “Not a chance. Just let my friend up, and we’ll be on our way.”
The gang-rat did a little shimmy with his shoulders. “You look hot handling that gun, chica. Just saying…”
Tarra glared at him. “Not interested, asshole.”
He angrily grumbled to his friends who nodded their heads. None of them looked any friendlier—or smarter—to her. One wore a pair of past-the-knees baggy basketball shorts with a matching jersey. Another wore a red shirt with the words, “Brown Lives Matter” printed across it, and the last one wore no shirt at all, but his many tattoos left no skin untouched.
To Tarra, WifeBeater said, “How do we know your other homies didn’t take anything?”
“Clearly,” she said, sarcastically repeating his words. “We didn’t take anything. You’ve got everything stacked up in the back, guarding it like Fort Knox. I saw it there. How could we have taken it?”
WifeBeater nodded and looked to his friends again, then back at Tarra. “A’ight. You give us your guns, and we’ll let you and your friend go.”
Tarra looked at her gun. It was a gift, and she cherished it. She had plenty of pistols… but this one was from her husband. She wasn’t giving it up. “Not happening. This gun was a gift from my hubs. You’ll have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands to get it.”
WifeBeater turned his own firearm sideways and pointed it at the back of Tucker’s head. He smiled contemptuously. “This White Bread your husband? Doesn’t look like much of a man on his knees here.”
Tarra flinched as she saw his finger on the trigger. One tiny squeeze, and Tucker was dead. She’d be wearing his brains. She considered the question. Within seconds, any of the four misguided hoods could blow Tucker’s head off.
Was it best to say yes?
Or would they try to kill the competition?
Maybe best to say no?
Tucker stared into Tarra’s eyes with a haunted look, as though it were already over, knowing his life might hinge on her answer. He took a deep breath, squeezed his lips together, and slowly closed his eyes.
32
Edith’s prayers must have fallen on deaf ears, she thought, as Trunk slowly pulled her to her feet—his gentle manner with her was in complete contrast to the terrifying plans he had in mind.
“Time to pay the piper, Granny.”
Edith begged, “Please, you don’t have to do this. Just take our food and go,” she cried. She dug her feet in, trying to move away from the grave, now freshly dug out.
Trunk laughed. “No, no, no… Edith. We’re not ready for that. The sun’s not cooperating. Better pray for rain,” he said, and laughed, pulling her with him.
They were charging a cell phone to be used in their evil plans, but the backpack charger the gang had with them was slow to charge without full sun. However, it was charging, albeit slowly. Edith shuddered to think of what would happen when it was at full strength.
Trunk held her elbow in his hand, as though he were politely helping her across the street, and Edith shuffled along beside him, her hands still tied together. “Just this way, Edith.”
They rounded the corner of her house where his boys had a fire raging. The chickens pecked and scratched around the dirt as though they didn’t have a care in the world.
“Run, girls,” Edith whispered under her breath.
Smalls, the great big behemoth of a man, was holding a metal pole, similar to a fire poker, but shorter, over the fire. In his huge hand, it looked more like a pencil. The end of it burned a hot, cherry red. At their approach, he looked at Edith, his eyes moving over her stricken face. His own face was ashen. Pleading eyes moved to Trunk. “You sure about this, Boss?”
“Shut up,” Trunk snapped.
But Backfire had no qualms about what they were about to do to a frail old lady. A bundle of rope was coiled up in one hand. He patted the back of a wooden chair they’d pulled near the fire. It was the match to the Adirondack chair she’d sat in next to the grave. It was slanted, so that one would sit way back in it; it was made for relaxing.
She wouldn’t be relaxing any time soon.
“What’s going on?” she asked frantically, her head swiveling from Smalls to Trunk and then to Backfire, who held a frozen smile, reminding her of the Joker from Batman. But she knew what was happening. She’d been told. She was in denial that it would really happen. Holding out hope that somehow, it wouldn’t.
Trunk waved to the chair. “Sit down, Edith.” Gone was his charming façade. Pure evil oozed out instead as his mask finally slipped.
Edith shuffled over to the chair and perched on the edge. Trunk put his hand on her shoulder and she quickly slid into the deep seat, leaning uncomfortably back. Backfire wrapped the rope around Edith’s middle, round and round, tying it in a tight knot behind the chair.
Trunk held out his hand and waved his fingers in the air. “Gimme your belt, Smalls,” he ordered.
Using one hand, Smalls undid his belt and slid it off, and reluctantly tossed it to Trunk, not able to turn and look at Edith; he kept his eyes cast down on the metal stick roasting over the fire.
Trunk held up the leather strap to Edith. “I warned you. I told you exactly what would happen if you lied to me. I’ve got to follow through now.”
A shiver ran down her spine.
Trunk continued, “From my experience, I highly recommend you bite this. But it’s up to you. I won’t force it into your mouth.” He stood in front of her and waited.