J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

Swanson also knows he’s jerking the trigger. Every shot, the butt of the TPG-1 slams into his shoulder. The area has been tender for several weeks, from all of the practice, and the bruise hasn’t ever healed. After the dozens of rounds fired to night, it hurts like crazy. Swanson flinches every time he fires, and this tiny movement is throwing off his aim.

Add in the pressure of getting done quickly, and the fact that Swanson isn’t a very good marksman to begin with, and it’s no wonder he hasn’t been able to hit anything.

But that is all about to change. The next person who appears in Swanson’s scope is going to die. He can feel it.

Swanson blinks, takes a deep breath, and adjusts his grip on the TPG-1. He aims the starlight scope on the hallway, ready to shoot the first thing that moves.

Something blurs past his line of fire. Swanson adjusts, finding the figure again, watching it disappear into the garage. He holds there… holds… holds… holds…

The figure appears again.

Swanson fires.

He misses – the target is moving too fast. It’s the woman cop, and she has the rifle. She ducks behind the couch.

Swanson pulls back the bolt, ejecting the empty cartridge, loading another one. He re-aims at the sofa and puts a bullet through the middle, where she was just a second ago.

I got her, he thinks. I must have.

Movement, in the lower right quadrant of his scope. He adjusts, sees someone squatting by the window.

The woman cop.

Swanson pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He didn’t load the next bullet yet.

Stupid bolt action rifle. Why didn’t Pessolano buy semiauto -

Swanson feels a sharp tug in his chest. He hears the shot at the same time.

Did she just-?

The pain runs Swanson over like a truck. Someone has him in a giant nutcracker and is squeezing his ribs, making it impossible to draw a breath. He touches his breastbone, looks at his fingers.

Blood. A lot of blood.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

Swanson crawls away from his gun. His breath comes back, and the oxygen burns and stabs at his insides. A weak cry escapes his throat.

He fumbles in the darkness for his belt, finds his radio, brings it to his face.

“… shot…” he manages to whisper.

No one answers.

“… I… got… shot…”

No reply. Why won’t they answer?

Swanson looks into the woods. Where’s the truck? Where did they park it? He has to get to a hospital. Has to get there so they can take this bullet out of his chest.

“I didn’t catch that, Swanson. Can you repeat?”

He stares at the radio. Presses the talk button.

“… shot… been shot… need… help…”

The radio falls from his hand. Swanson coughs, feels something wet come up. Everything is getting all topsy-turvy. He isn’t going to make it to the truck. He isn’t going to make it another foot. He wants to lie down, go to sleep. Swanson falls onto his face, and the universe explodes into a Technicolor panorama of agony.

Swanson moans, manages to roll off of his tortured chest and onto his back. He stares up into the night sky. Each time he inhales he wants to die. He wants, needs , to talk to Jen, to tell her he didn’t mean for it to work out this way. This isn’t the ending he planned on.

“Swanson?”

It’s not the radio. Swanson’s eyes drift to the right, land on Munchel, standing next to him.

“Jee-zus, man! You got yourself shot.” Munchel stares back at the house. “I knew she was good. Glad I only gave her three bullets.”

“Doc…tor…” Swanson wheezes.

“Hell yeah, you need a doctor. Shit, I can see blood bubbles coming out the hole in your chest. You are seriously fucked up.”

Swanson wonders why Munchel is just standing there. He should be dragging him to the truck, or shutting off the cell phone jammer and calling an ambulance.

“Hos…pit…tal…”

Munchel leans over. His face looks huge, and his expression is grim. “See, here’s the problem with hospitals, Greg. They have to report gunshot wounds. How quick do you think they’d connect a rifle slug in the chest with what happened to night in Chicago?”

“…won’t…”

“Sure they will.”

Swanson forces it out. “… won’t… tell…”

“Oh, I get it. We drop you off, and you don’t mention us at all. Even when you’re on trial for all of those dead cops that I killed. You don’t say anything at all about me or Pessolano. Is that right?”

Swanson coughs. His mouth feels hot and wet. He can’t believe Munchel wants to talk this much while he’s dying. The talk can come later. Right now he needs help.

“Do you promise you won’t rat out your buddies, Swanson? Can I get your word on that?”

Swanson thinks he nods. Or maybe he just imagines he nods. Either way, he feels himself being dragged. To the truck. To doctors. To safety.

He closes his eyes, hopes that Jen is there in the hospital when he wakes up.

Pain forces Swanson’s eyes back open. He feels like there’s an airplane parked on his chest.

It’s Munchel. He’s standing on Swanson’s rib cage.

“Can’t use a bullet,” he says. “Pessolano might hear.”

Swanson can’t draw a breath to answer. He tries to push away Munchel’s legs, but he has no strength left.

Death doesn’t come quick or easy. It’s takes close to five minutes.

Swanson feels every second.

I’M PRETTY SURE I hit the sniper, or at least came close. I set the rifle down, find the wall switch, and flick on the living room lights. They’ll have to change scopes again, giving me time to-

She comes at me in a blur. My mind registers the glint of a knife blade, and I instinctively throw both hands up over my head, forming an X with my wrists to block its downward path. Then I spin, sweeping my right leg out, tripping Alex.

Alex lands hard but recovers fast, rolling to the side, getting her feet under her. The knife is from the rack on my kitchen counter. A cheap set, flimsy blades, but they’re serrated and insanely sharp. She’s chosen a paring knife. Alex switches her grip to underhanded, blade up. She’s fought with knives before.

I cast my eyes around for a weapon, settle on a sofa cushion. It won’t do much, damage-wise, but it’s thicker than the knife blade.

Alex’s eyes are cool, dispassionate. She feints once. Again. Then lunges.

I block the knife with the cushion, feeling it puncture the fabric, twisting hard to try and catch the blade. She pushes harder, swiping at my face with her free hand, catching me on the cheek.

I stumble back, managing to keep hold of the cushion. She comes at me again, but this time I kick at her shin, driving my heel into the spot below her knee.

Alex roars. Then a gunshot thunders over our heads, making a divot in the ceiling.

Harry, in the hallway, pointing my Kimber at us.

“Hey! Mrs. Hyde! Hold still so I can hit you!”

Alex must not feel threatened by Harry’s left-handed shooting, because she ignores him and comes at me again. Personally, I feel extremely threatened. Chances are high Harry will shoot me instead of Alex. I’ve witnessed firsthand how bad he is lefty. Adding codeine and vodka to the mix isn’t going to improve his aim.

Alex strikes, hard enough for the knife tip to penetrate both sides of the cushion. She muscles forward. I double back, smacking into the wall behind me.

Another BOOM . A hanging picture of my mother shatters, Harry’s shot hitting her in the head.

Alex presses her whole body against the cushion. I feel the tip of the blade poke against my stomach. I shove back, but she’s bigger, stronger. I suck in my gut, trying to avoid being skewered. It isn’t working. The knife jabs me again, and I feel it break the skin.