CHAPTER 12 #4
“Morgan,” she spat, her voice dropping into a dangerous, razor-sharp hiss. “Where the hell is your regular hoe at? I see you out here tricking on a new chick already, and you still got the nerve to bring your dusty ass over here to disrupt my night?”
Morgan’s face turned an ugly, mottled purple in the dim moonlight. He tossed his plastic cup onto the sand, the liquor splashing over his sneakers. “Shut your fucking mouth, Ciara. You don't talk to me like that. Not in front of people.”
“Or else what, Morgan?” she shot back, stepping closer to him, completely fearless, her eyes burning with an intense, unyielding hatred. “Step the fuck aside, and don’t try to fuck up my night. You already showed the world what a clown you are a few days back. You want a repeat performance?”
Morgan didn't look at her. His bloodshot eyes were locked entirely on me, sizing up my six-foot-eight frame with a desperate, insecure bravado. He was breathing heavily, the sour scent of cheap tequila and aggressive sweat rolling off his body.
“You think you’re tough, huh, blonde boy?” Morgan sneered, his hands twitching at his sides. “You think because you put your hands on me in the store, you’re the king of this city? You’re nothing but a soft-ass white boy in a tight suit.”
“Morgan,” I said, my voice dropping into a cold, clinical, and completely flat register that carried no human emotion whatsoever.
I stood at my full height, looking down at him like a specimen under a microscope.
“You are visibly intoxicated, and you are making an immense mistake. Turn around and walk away while you still possess the physical capacity to do so.”
“Oh, really? You threatening me?”
With a sudden, violent movement, Morgan reached down into the waistband of his tracksuit.
Click-clack.
The metallic, heavy sound of a gun slide racking echoed clearly over the rush of the waves.
In the dim light of the gas torches, the matte-black finish of a Glock 19 emerged from his clothes.
He raised his arm, his hand trembling slightly from the alcohol, and pointed the barrel of the weapon directly at the center of my forehead.
Time slowed down to an absolute, mathematical crawl.
Inside my head, the clinical firewall dropped, and the monster emerged fully into the light.
I didn't feel fear. I didn't feel panic.
My heart rate remained perfectly, terrifyingly steady.
I analyzed the physics of the situation with a cold, microscopic clarity.
Distance: nine and a half feet. Angle of the barrel: slightly tilted up due to his height disadvantage.
Reaction time of an intoxicated male: approximately 0. 45 seconds.
My right hand was resting loosely in my pants pocket.
My fingers were already touching the cool, smooth silver casing of my sanitized stencil knife.
I knew exactly how long it would take to draw the blade, close the distance, and slide the surgical steel directly into his carotid artery.
I could sever his vocal cords before he could let out a scream, letting his life force drain out into the dark sand of the beach.
But the gun was pointed at my head. A single, muscle spasm in his finger would override all my clinical precision.
I slowly raised my two hands to shoulder height, palms open, facing him in a classic gesture of innocent surrender. I had to play the victim. I had to let him feel powerful to keep his finger steady.
“Look at you now!” Morgan laughed, a high-pitched, unhinged sound of pure triumph as he saw my hands go up.
He stepped closer, the barrel of the gun now only four feet from my face.
“Not so tough now, are you, Doc? You ain't got that big-man grip no more, do you? You nearly broke my fucking wrist in that store, you bastard.”
“Serve you right, you little coward,” Ciara hissed from beside me. Her voice was trembling, not with fear, but with a consuming, volcanic rage. She looked at the weapon, then up at his face. “Morgan, do not do this. Do not do something you’re gonna regret for the rest of your pathetic life.”
“Shut the fuck up, C!” Morgan shouted, his eyes never leaving mine, a dangerous, psychotic twitch in his cheek.
“I won't regret a damn thing. I’ll take this blonde bastard’s life right here on this sand, and I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.
He thinks he can disrespect me? He thinks he can take what’s mine? ”
“I’m sorry I didn't come out here strapped tonight,” Ciara muttered under her breath, her fists clenched so tightly her knuckles were turning white. She was fuming, looking at him with a murderous intent that matched my own hidden darkness. “I swear to God, Morgan…”
Suddenly, the young black woman he had been with—Kelly—stepped down from the boardwalk onto the sand. Her face was pale with sheer terror, her hands shaking as she looked at the weapon.
“Morgan! Stop!” she screamed, her voice cracking with panic. “What the hell are you doing? Put the gun away! Are you crazy? We need to leave!”
“Go home, Kelly! This doesn't concern you!” Morgan roared, not even looking at her, his arm remaining rigid as he pointed the Glock at my eyes. “Get the fuck out of here! This nigga needs to learn a lesson.”
Kelly let out a terrified sob, turned around, and ran back toward the restaurant as fast as her legs could carry her.
Morgan sneered, stepping into my personal space, the metallic scent of the gun barrel mixing with his foul breath. “You ready to meet your maker, nigga?”
I looked straight down the barrel of the weapon, my pale blue eyes locking onto his bloodshot stare with a cold, dead emptiness that finally made his triumphant smile falter.
“Are you?” I shot back, my voice completely flat, completely steady, carrying a quiet, terrifying certainty that echoed louder than his screams.
Morgan blinked, his confidence wavering for a fraction of a second. “Still playing tough even though I have a gun pointing at your head? You really got a death wish, don't you?”
Before he could pull the trigger, a sudden, blinding flash of blue and red lights cut through the darkness of the parking lot above. The sharp, wailing, and high-pitched blare of a police jeep’s siren filled the air, the tires gravel-crunching as it slammed to a halt near the boardwalk.
Someone at the restaurant had called the police. And by the looks of it, it had been Kelly who prompted them, running for her life to find help.
Morgan’s eyes widened with sudden panic. He looked at the blaring lights, then back at me, realizing his window of opportunity had closed.
“Catch you later next time, Doc,” he spat, rapidly lowering the weapon and tucking it back into his waistband. He turned around and sprinted into the darkness of the beach, disappearing past the shadow of the pier just as two uniformed officers stepped onto the sand with their flashlights drawn.
I took a deep, slow breath, lowering my hands as the adrenaline slowly began to recede from my system. My heart rate climbed to ninety, then slowly dropped back to its comfortable rhythm.