18. nix #2
The young gunman moves closer, his weapon trained on me with a shaky hand. This is even better. He’s moving away from the civilians, making my job much easier. “What the fuck did you just say to me?” he snarls, narrowing his dark eyes at me.
I push my shoulders back, standing tall, and take a step closer. With confidence that can’t be faked, I stare him down. “You heard me.”
He raises his chin and his gun higher, but I don’t miss the shakiness in his hands. “You a fucking pig?”
I take my time to study him, noting the sweat dotting his forehead and the dilation of his pupils, and shake my head adamantly.
“Nope. I’m much worse than a cop. I don’t have to follow their protocols.
” I step forward again, and at this point, his nerves have him taking a step backward toward the door.
The idiot waves his gun around. The safety’s off and his trembling finger sits heavily against the trigger, making it fucking dangerous every time he moves.
“Stop fucking moving, or I’ll fucking shoot you in the head.
” He swings his gun toward the deceased victim, then brings it back to me, pointing it at my face.
“Maybe I’ll shoot you just for kicks.” He smiles, showing missing and rotten teeth marring his gums.
Spinning quickly, he aims his gun at Mr. B behind the counter.
Fuck, he’s erratic. I can’t allow anything to happen to him.
He’s a staple in this community, and his wife wouldn’t survive if she lost him.
“Give me the fucking money and smokes. Now!” he screams, sending the veins along his neck pulsing. “Or I’ll kill this fucker!”
I quickly scan the store, noting the gym dude lying flat on the floor, his body shaking as if he’s crying. The middle-aged guy ducks behind the snacks, his shaky hands covering his head as he drops to his knees. Everyone’s terrified—to be expected in a situation like this.
Sirens sound in the distance, and I have to assume the gunshot garnered some attention from passersby, or Mrs. B called for help.
“You should leave before the cops get here,” I suggest calmly. Maybe I can get him out of the store and away from everyone before anyone else gets hurt.
He spins around to face me, firing the gun by accident, hitting the snack shelf, and sending candy and chips raining down. The guy who was crouching behind the shelf drops to the floor with a pained shout. More blood pools on the dirty floor, the metallic scent permeating the air.
Fuck fuck!
The young woman screams, and the gym junkie whimpers. Shouts infiltrate the store from the witnesses on the street outside, adding to the mayhem. The sirens grow louder, and the gunman grows more agitated.
I block it all out and plan what needs to happen over the next few moments. I visualize taking this motherfucker to the ground in the safest, most efficient way possible, ensuring nobody else gets injured.
“I’ll give you the money and cigarettes. Just put the damn gun down. Nobody else needs to get hurt,” Mr. B shouts over the chaos, drawing attention back to him.
“You should have fucking done it already!” he screams, growing more unhinged by the minute. “If you’d given me what I asked for, I’d already be gone.” He waves his arm out toward the street. “Now I’ve got fucking cops everywhere. I should just shoot everyone for fucking me around!”
I take another controlled step forward while he’s focused on Mr. B, bringing me within a few feet of him.
From this distance, I can easily jump him, but there’s no guarantee he won’t fire again, and this time he may take out my old friend.
I need to do this as cleanly as possible without anyone else getting killed or injured.
I assess him. Inch by inch, I take in every part of the gunman, from the wild look in his eyes, the sweat trailing down the side of his face.
The way his body twitches, and the way he can’t seem to keep his feet still or his focus stable.
The tight tone of his voice and the tremor in his hand.
I monitor every blink, every breath in and out …
the way his body moves with each inhale and exhale.
Keeping my eyes locked on the perpetrator, I blow out a long, slow breath, relaxing my posture while my muscles coil tight beneath my flesh.
With several inches on him as well as several pounds of carefully honed muscle; he won’t be difficult to take down.
Every necessary intake of oxygen into my lungs helps to narrow my focus.
His trigger finger twitches, and I move.
Lightning fast, I lunge forward, grip the hand holding the gun, and point it toward the ceiling before the gunman even realizes I’ve moved from my position.
A shot is fired, sending chunks of the ceiling and dust raining down on us.
As the gunman shakes the material from his head, I drag his arm back down and twist his hand to the side, moving my body out of the firing line.
As I gain control of the gun, I continue twisting his hand behind his back at an impossible angle until I hear the unmistakable snap of bones and his hand becomes useless.
He screams. Simultaneously, I kick his legs out from underneath him and push his body toward the filthy linoleum floor until he’s prone.
I shove my knee heavily between his scrawny shoulder blades, trap both of his hands in one of mine, and point his gun at the back of his head.
He screams again and I smirk. Take that asshole.
Not gonna lie, it’s the best kind of high to take down an asshole like this one. He wants to play a big game; he should be more prepared. I glance up and around, raking my eyes over everyone. “Everyone okay?”
Their bewildered gazes flick between me and the screaming perpetrator trapped beneath me as they answer with jerky nods. I scan their faces, observing the sheer terror straining their features.
I call to the back of the store. “Are you okay back there near the fridges?”
A loud keening sob fills the store from that direction, and I wish I could go to the young woman to reassure her that she’s safe now, but I need to keep hold of the asshole until the police can deal with him.
“You wanna head outside and let the police know I’ve disarmed the armed man and have him secured?” I call out.
No answer. She’s probably frozen in fear. A common response after a traumatic experience—people freeze up. Completely understandable when your life has been at risk.
The gym guy pushes to his feet. “I-I’ll go,” he stutters as he runs for the door without a thought to check on the other people around him. What a fucking waste of space. Not as much of a waste as the guy beneath me who’s valiantly trying to escape my hold.
I twist his broken wrist a little, and he screeches like a fucking banshee. “What the fuck, man? Get the fuck off me. Let me fucking go!”
I chuckle darkly. “I don’t think so, asshole.”
He continues to curse up a storm as loud shouts and quick footsteps thunder on the pavement outside, and within moments, I’m surrounded by several cops with their guns trained on me. “Drop the gun and put your hands behind your head.”
“He’s not the bad guy here,” Mr. B barks. “He is,” he tells the officers as he points to my detainee.
The police completely ignore him and jab their guns forward, making their point. “Drop the fucking gun and put your hands behind your head,” one of them barks.
To be fair, they don’t know what went down, and I could be as unstable as the man beneath me for all they can ascertain from the situation they’ve barged in on.
Slowly, I slide the gun across the floor and raise my hands behind my head, but not before I’m jostled off the perpetrator and man-handled into a similar position.
Tensions are already at an all-time high, so I don’t struggle. Instead, I remain calm and compliant.
Shouting ensues as they roughly cuff the gunman, eliciting screams from him as they shove the cuff on his broken wrist. A smirk touches my lips at his pain; I don’t think I’m a masochist, but maybe I am.
Over the noise and the chaos, the young woman’s sobs fill the air.
Nobody should bear witness to such acts of violence, let alone have a front-row seat.
I turn my head to the side, pressing my cheek against the filthy floor, hoping to see her beneath the shelves.
I don’t think she’s moved an inch from the position she held before.
There’s a scuffle and more shouting from the cops as they drag the gunman out of the store.
Anyone would think they were apprehending a group of terrorists with their zealousness, not a lone gunman.
Suddenly, I’m pulled to my feet and spun around.
The cops shove me away and tell me to stay where I am.
“Nobody move!”
A team of paramedics rush inside, quickly assessing the two men on the floor. Crouching down, they tend to the victim who’s still alive with efficient movements, asking questions in a perfunctory manner.
Mrs. B comes out from the back and wraps her arms around her husband.
He returns her embrace, both of them sobbing and shaking in shock.
They really need to be seen by the paramedics, but the police are solely focused on getting statements from everyone.
I’m certain they’ll readily provide a detailed statement once they calm down a little.
The young woman finally makes her way toward the front of the store; she’s younger than I originally thought. I move closer to her, fighting my protective instinct to wrap my arms around her. “Hey, everything’s okay now. You’re safe,” I say softly.
She snaps her head toward me—her unique two-colored eyes catching me off-guard—and nods slowly, as if she can’t believe a single word I say. Her hands tremble as she readjusts her backpack.
I smile calmly. “The police will probably need a statement, and then you’ll be free to go home.”