The story so far:
No, **** that. He doesn’t get two more minutes.
He stepped out of the car and walked towards the hotel room. His stride was fast and powerful, like a father whose run out of patience with a disobedient child. He had the look of someone who was not to be **** with, someone who could clear a path through a crowd with just the look in his eye. Not to mention his 6’4 250 build. Not to mention the revolver in his right hand.
He reached the door and was ready to kick it in and break Sam’s skull for taking so long. Break that bitch’s skull if she was being difficult. But then he saw her running, maybe 30 yards away, the kid dragging behind her.
“Motha****!” He pointed his gun at her and wanted to fire so bad, so, so bad. She was far and a moving target, but he knew he could hit her, right in the back of her head. Blow her brains out from thirty yards and be done with it. All of this goddamned heartache he had suffered because of her could end right now with a 5 pound squeeze of his index. But he resisted, and a moment later was sprinting after them.
The boy was practically being dragged across the hotel parking lot. His hand was definitely bruised from Kate’s tight grip on him, maybe his fingers were broken, maybe his arm too. But it didn’t matter. Kate had lost all ability to care about anything but survival. She knew who was after them, she certainly knew why they were after them, and she knew even more what was coming her way if they caught her.
As she reached Main Street and the end of the parking lot she looked back. Mike Mendell was behind her, and not far behind at all. She bolted left towards a gas station, praying to god that it was open. Lights were on and she saw a clerk at the counter. He looked up just as she burst through the door, screaming and crying. The clerk, a Mexican guy, maybe forty-five, jumped to his feet, bewildered.
“Whoa, whoa baby—“ He tried to talk but she was screaming and trying to lock the door.
“How the **** do you lock this!!! Please oh god **** lock the door he’s here ohh **** please!!!”
She couldn’t lock the door before Mike slammed into it, knocking her onto her back.
“WHOA!!! What the ****, hey man--!” The clerk was panicking.
Mike was beat from the run, breathing hard, his normal pissed off expression was now more adamant than ever. The clerk tried to speak again but his words were abruptly silenced by two exploding rounds of 44 caliber lead. Both hit directly in his chest, killing him instantly.
Kate was screaming.
The mid-forties Mexican clerk was motionless on the floor behind the counter, the puddle of blood looked black against the dark tile.
The boy was standing, quietly, expressionless.
“You **** bitch!! Get the **** up!!” Mike grabbed Kate by the arm and threw her into a rack of chips nearby. Dorito’s and Funyun’s and Hot Fries tumbled over her.
She was hysterical. “Please, Mike—Jesus Christ please!!!”
“Shut up you **** hooker bitch!! Don’t **** look at me!!” With his left hand he grabbed her shirt and lifted her up. He slide the revolver into his pants and with an open hand slapped Kate across the face. Hard. Her head pivoted sharply to the left and almost instantly her eye was black, her cheekbone swollen and fiercely pronounced under the darkened skin. She wasn’t unconscious, but severely dazed; broken, beaten.
“Get up.” Still holding onto her shirt Mike tried to get her to her feet. She tried to stand, kicking her feet in search of balance but couldn’t find it. Her vision was blurry and her mind was lost and fuzzy. Sounds were muffled and far away. What’s happening? Her face was suddenly on fire; melting, throbbing; molten pain. Confusion, mental commotion, mayhem. Then blackness.
In his frustration Mike had hit her again. Four more times. This time his fist was closed and unrelenting, hammering down on her face and head. Blood from her nose or cracked skull had splattered onto his shirt. As she lay completely still, limp, bloody, battered, he wondered if maybe he had killed her.
He hoped that he hadn’t, but a tiny voice in his head said Good riddance if you did.
He grabbed her by the ankle and began to drag her rag-doll body towards the door.
The boy was standing, quietly, expressionless.
“What the **** are you looking at? Let’s go.”
*
It could have a car backfire. It could have been some kids lighting blackcats or M-80’s. It could have been anything, but Jack was pretty certain they were gunshots. Yes, definitely. They were too loud, too explosive to be anything else. And they were close. Really close. Close enough for Jack’s curiosity to get the best of him. He was already dressed and standing outside. It was quiet, except for the occasional woosh of traffic down Main, and the ringing echo of gunfire still hanging in the air. He wondered if he should call the cops. Instead he closed the door to his room and walked cautiously down the corridor.
Where you going, Detective?
He snorted a soft laugh at himself. What was he trying to do? Heard some gunshots and off to investigate, are ya? Where’s your magnifying glass? Where your brown duster and wide-brimmed hat? Go back to your room. Mind your business. This is how stupid people get themselves killed. He snickered and ignored the mocking voice in his head. Curiosity always beat out good judgment.
When he came to the room with the broken door, he stopped. The door-jam was busted inwards, and the door itself had a large, splintered dent. He peered inside and saw a big man kneeling on the floor. His right hand was wrapped around the back of his head, his left was propped on the floor, holding his large body like a kickstand. He was breathing heavy, maybe groaning too.
“Uhh… you okay man?” The words felt odd when Jack spoke them.
The big man jerked up and spun around. “Ohhgg… ****… what’s going… where… who are you?”
Immediately Jack noticed the pistol protruding from the man’s pants. “Um, I’m Jack. I just heard something and thought….” He trailed off.
The man, standing and seeming to compose himself a bit, said “Jesus, pal. Get the **** out of here.” The stranger spoke again, said something but Sam only heard noises. His head was pounding. What happened? Where are they? Where’s Mike? This was bad, he’d screwed up. And who is this guy? He couldn’t think, he couldn’t see straight or hear the words this **** was saying. He rubbed the back of his head and it felt wet. Was he bleeding? He was. Jesus what the hell is going on here. Kate—did she hit me? He looked at the broken lamp on the floor. She did. Goddamn it. The stranger was still speaking. His words sounded like buzzing static. Just as he was about to tell the guy to shut his mouth, to forget all about this and get the **** out of there, Mike appeared behind him. The stranger was still talking, oblivious. Mike lifted his revolver to the back of his head, and cocked back the hammer.
Jack froze. When he turned around he was staring down the barrel of a silver cannon. Mike didn’t say a word, and for ten very long seconds there was complete silence. Then, after an eternity, he moved the gun away. Jack subconsciously let out a sigh of relief. Still the deadly silence. The stare-down. Mike’s eyes burned holes. Then he put the gun back in Jack’s face. This time he pressed the barrel firmly against his forehead. It was warm. Jack felt his testicles shrivel and suck themselves upwards.
Mike stared for a moment longer, then pulled the trigger.
