J. Black - The Shop

He lay still and hoped the man would come to him.

Luck was with him. When the man reached down to check Landry’s neck, he snared the hand, whipped around, and braced it against his chest, bending back two fingers till they broke. The man screamed. Holding his quarry’s head steady with his bad arm, Landry shoved the palm of his good hand into the man’s nose, dissolving the small bones inside and ramming the shards into his brain.

The shooter crumpled to the floor, an empty vessel.

At that moment, everything went out of him. Adrenaline deserted him, leaving him lightheaded. He felt as if he’d been stomped—it was so debilitating he could barely move. As if he’d been kicked in the balls, only his balls extended all the way up to his neck. His back was burned. He could picture it, glowing embers threaded into the Kevlar of his vest, branding the skin. If anyone else came down here now, he would be easy to kill.

He pulled the .45 out of its holster with his left hand and rested it on his knee.

Heard a noise behind him.

Swiveled, shot into the dark above.

Someone yelled, toppled. Landry stared into the darkness, but could see nothing. He thought this was because he was in shock. Darkness encroached on his vision. He felt dizzy. He heard slithering above, and the sound of someone rising ponderously to his feet. Cursing.

He was incapable of doing anything—just waited for the coup de grâce.

But whoever it was blundered away, out through the cupboard. Scared, maybe, of what he might find down here?

The darkness pulsed at the edges of Landry’s vision, and pain radiated from his collarbone—the crunch he’d heard. His right arm was useless. His left hand had dropped the .45 and lay against his thigh, trembling. He stood up and leaned against the wall. It took him three tries to pick up his rifle and his duffle.

Then he dropped them and sank down against the wall of the tunnel.

Rest a while.

There was no one waiting for them at the skiff. The idling engine seemed loud even in the falling rain, obvious. Jolie herded everyone into the cover of the boathouse, told them to stay still.

Get the old man on first? He would be the most recalcitrant. She touched his arm. “We’ve got to go,” she said gently.

He stared at her, bewildered. “I have to go to the potty.”

Zoe said, “Grand, we have to go. It’ll be fun. Like when you used to take us sailing.”

He smiled at Zoe. “You keeping an eye on Riley? Don’t you let her get knocked up.”

Zoe put her hand under his elbow. “We’ve got to go, Grand.”

He let himself to be led toward the boat.

Jolie heard a noise behind them.

Something dark in the rain, slithering like a lizard along the wall of the boathouse—a man, breaking abruptly from the overhang and running for the boat. Shoving Franklin, Franklin turning to grab him, pulling at the black pullover the man wore. The man was bloody, and Jolie couldn’t see a gun.

But she saw the knife.

The man seized Zoe around the arms and catapulted her along the dock, pulling her against him with such force her head hit his chest, and the knife carved a shadow into her throat.

Zoe’s eyes were wild, terrified. “Mom—”

“Shut up!”

Franklin yelled, “Mike! Don’t do this, she’s just a kid!”

The man pulled Zoe closer to his body, her hair tangling around his arm as he propped her chin up. Jolie saw the neat red line on her throat.

“Stay back!” he yelled, breathing hard, his hand moving with each exhale, the knife sawing a little against Zoe’s neck.

Franklin approached him, slowly, hands out, as if trying to quiet a cornered animal. “Mike, let’s talk about this. We’ve been friends for—”

“Shut up !” He shuffled backward, wrenching Zoe’s arm behind her back, almost jerking her off her feet.

There was a sound, an almost inaudible crunch, and Zoe screamed.

Her arm was broken.

Jolie felt darkness coming down over her eyes—anger—and for a moment she lost track of what she was doing. Already in the stance, the H & K solidly in her hand, the other hand cupped around it, her finger near the trigger but not yet on it. “Drop the knife!” she yelled. “Do it now!”

A perverse part of her wanted him to defy her so she could shoot him between the eyes. She’d never in her life wanted to shoot anyone so much as she wanted to shoot the coward who had broken Zoe’s arm.

And he was laughing . “This isn’t a cop show,” he said. “You stay right where you are. Just…stay. Right there.”

He moved backward in an awkward dance, and Jolie saw blood seeping through his fingers. Zoe’s face was pale under the veil of rain that seemed to get stronger, washing the blood into rivulets down her shirt.

Her eyes boring into Jolie’s: Help me .

The girl was terrified and in incredible pain from the broken arm, but she managed to hold it together. Putting her trust in Jolie. Believing there would be a good outcome, that she would come out of this alive.

Jolie wasn’t so sure.

Cardamone was at the edge of the dock now, his legs touching the gunwale of the skiff.

“Let her go,” Frank said. “Just let her go and—”

“Frank, you are such an asshole. You think I’m going to give up my only ace in the hole?” Cardamone smiled, but it was more of a grimace. “Tell you what, buddy. How about a trade—you for her. Get in the boat now, and when we’re away, I’ll push her in the water.”

Franklin went pale. “Mike, can’t we just—”

“Get in the boat, Frank. Show some guts for once in your life. Do the right thing. Isn’t that the legacy you want to leave your family? Grace is dead , Franklin, you fucking pansy. Don’t you think it’s time for you to make a decision about what kind of man you are?”

Frank stepped forward. Riley grabbed him. “Daddy, don’t! He’s just trying to get you to go with him.”

Franklin seemed dazed. He looked at his daughter. “But what about Zoe?”

“She’ll be all right. Won’t you, Zoe?”

Jolie listened to this drama with half an ear. She adjusted her grip, felt the delicate trigger mechanism with her fingertip. Less than two pounds of pressure, all she needed. Cardamone staring at her. Nothing between them. He adjusted his grip on Zoe so that the tip of her head touched his nose.

Take all the anger out of it. All the emotion. Just make the shot.

She could make the shot. But suddenly, the dock swayed. Franklin walked forward, tramping on the wood.

Wait .

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something moving in the hard-lapping waves by the boat’s stern—washed-up debris, probably. The boat tossed, banging hard against the dock. It would be hard for Cardamone to step into the boat, but he was trying to do just that.

He lifted one leg and rested it on the gunwale. The boat tipping. The stern whacking repeatedly against the dock. He leaned forward awkwardly, almost losing his balance.

Jolie saw her moment slipping away. She couldn’t shoot him now, not with the boat rocking, not with Zoe’s head clamped under the man’s chin.

“Mike,” Frank said. “Be reasonable.”

“Get in the boat, Frank.”

Franklin stepped onto the dock. Riley screamed at him. “Don’t! Daddy, don’t do it! Please, don’t do it! Daddy, please !”

Franklin was at the edge of the boat now. He reached a hand out to steady Zoe, who was in danger of falling between the boat and the dock, the knife now pinching deep into her skin. Another seep of blood.

Franklin lifted his leg to step into the boat. “Let me get her on the dock—”