Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

June was down to only one intruder, an ex-con with a loaded gun and a bad case of frayed nerves. Ronald Reagan wasn’t going to be so easy to deal with.

She listened at the door and heard only the TV playing.

Reagan would still be on the couch watching TV, facing away from the bedroom door. It would be easy enough to walk out the door, aim Clinton’s gun at the man’s back, and pull the trigger. She wouldn’t have to be an expert shot to accomplish that, and the girls wouldn’t be in the way. As soon as that was done, she could call the police and be done with the ordeal. Surely, no one could blame her for defending herself and the girls with a gun one of the intruders had brought.

The pistol was still on the floor where it landed during the fight. Giving its use one last consideration, June picked up the pistol, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She turned it from side to side, inspecting it closely. She had a decision to make.

As serious as the situation was, she couldn’t bring herself to shooting a man in the back. She removed the clip. It too was empty just like George’s, and she could only assume they were unloaded to prevent a major crime from being committed in the heat of the moment. She dropped the gun to the floor and gave it a kick it under the bed.

She took several calming breaths while rubbing the raw spots on her wrists. Not that those breaths were particularly calming. Two men were down and out, hopefully remaining out and thoroughly tied. But there was still one more to go.

And two hungry, scared nieces only steps away.

There was no phone in the bedroom, and her smart phone was in Reagan’s hand the last she saw. With Clinton’s phone, she could call 9-1-1 for the police, but risked being overheard by Ronald in the other room. She had no door to the outside, only a window to shinny out. But she wouldn’t desert the kids in the other bedroom.

If she went out and crept to their window, they would make too much fuss when they saw her peek in the window. There was no way she could get them out of the house without being heard.

She had to hurry with some sort of plan. With no better idea of what to do, June took Clinton’s phone to the bathroom. She opened it, and dialed those three numbers that have been so troublesome for her in the past. Ignoring the emergency operator when she came on, she wrapped the phone in a towel and set it in the tub, closing the door behind her as she left.

She figured the operator would stay on the phone for at least a couple minutes, talking louder and louder. The towel and closed door would have to be enough to drown out whatever noise the 9-1-1 operator would make, or a ringing call back. Maybe, just maybe, there was a GPS chip in the phone to locate its where-abouts, and police would eventually be sent to her home to check on the call.

She went to the door and listened again without opening it. The TV was still playing, only now a game show of some sort. June wondered what sort of weapon she could use against a man with a loaded gun. She still had the pocketknife she got from Clinton’s pocket. Small and flimsy, it wasn’t much of a fighting weapon.

She went to the nightstand and slid open the drawer. There was nothing inside but a romance paperback, a nail file, and antacid. She had nothing else in the bedroom to use as a weapon.

Her only other option was to get to the baseball bat from next to the front door and use it on the man before he knew what was happening. Thinking of the area she would have to cover to get to it, she would be exposed to him for several steps before she could even get to the bat, let alone attack him with it before getting shot. He had already fired off one shot, so she had to assume the gun was fully loaded, unlike the others.

She would have to use her mind. That would have to be her best weapon.

That’s when it hit her, what Reagan had said a couple times about not going back to prison for doing something stupid. No bullets were in either of his partner’s guns, only so murder couldn’t impulsively be committed. If she was lucky, Reagan might have done the same with his, putting only one bullet in for show.

But she couldn’t count on it.

She opened the door and walked out.

“Hey, there you are! Have a good time with that...” He looked over the back of the couch. He had removed the rubber Ronald Reagan mask from his head. Their eyes met; he looked startled it was her and not his partner. She didn’t recognize him either.

“I doubt he had much fun,” she said to him.

He was immediately up on his feet, his gun rising. June froze in her tracks, not sure of what to do.

“What’d you do to him?”

“He wasn’t my type.”

“You killed him?”

“He’s taking a nap.”

They stared at each other. His gun hand began to shake. She struggled to control her nerves, waiting for the gun to fire. When it didn’t, she took another step.

His face twisted into a frown, turning red. When his face went dark, he looked like somebody that belonged in a mental institution rather than prison. With no other option, that was the game she would have to play with him. She had to shake him to the point of making a mistake. It was all she had.

A banging sound came from outside in the garden.

“What’s that?” he asked, glancing quickly toward the back of the house.

It had to be Georgie in the shed, now awake, trying to draw attention to his plight. She shrugged.

“Where’s Donny?” he asked.

“Oh, so that’s his real name. He’s taking a nap out in the shed.” She took another hesitant step toward him. From the side of her eye she could see the baseball bat next to the front door. “We’re all alone now. Just you against me.”

“You should stand still,” he told her. “I’m the one with the gun.”

“And you should set that gun down before you get hurt,” she said back.

The guest bedroom door creaked open, the movement catching her eye.

“Auntie,” said a tiny voice. “What’s...”

“Koemi, go back inside and close the door,” June said steadily.

“But...”

“I said go back inside!” June could barely keep from screaming at her nieces, but kept her gaze on the man in front of her.

After she heard the door close, she took another step forward, followed by another to close the gap between them.

Reagan’s gun hand wavered a bit as he wiped sweat from his brow. “Stand still.”

“Your partners’ guns were empty. What’s up with that?”

“Those two Bozo’s with live ammo?” he asked. “I don’t think so. I ain’t goin’ to prison for murder, just because they might do something stupid.”

“You’re going back to prison anyway. Right after a trip to the hospital.” June took another step. She was almost to the side of the couch. She had angled toward him and away from the bat, forsaking its potential use. “You’ve been there before, haven’t you?”

“You seriously think I won’t shoot you?”

“I thought you weren’t going to prison for doing something stupid?”

“Don’t push your luck, missy.”

“Don’t call me missy. If you were a real man you’d beat the crap out of me.” She smiled, surprising herself that one formed on her face. At least she thought it was a smile and not nausea.

He grinned for only a moment, and then releveled his gun at her chest.

“You are a man, right? Because those other two...well, I checked and there wasn’t much there, really. But a big, smart guy like you wouldn’t be so deficient, right?”

She took one last step, then only two steps away from him. She couldn’t risk any more. She stood still, her eyes locked onto his face, his gun pointed at her chest.