AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Well, at least that’s something.
He lowers the gun to mid-thigh. It’s still aimed in our general direction but at least it’s not pointed at my chest anymore. “That don’t mean she ain’t gotta pay her debts, you know? Everyone’s gotta pay.”
“Where is she?” I desperately want to somehow signal to Molly she needs to drop to the ground and take cover behind the car if I make a move. But how? All the training I’ve done. All the times I’ve taught her how to defend herself, why didn’t we ever come up with some sort of plan or signal for a situation like this?
“How the fuck should I know?” He shrugs, holding his hands—and the gun—out wide.
Christ, if he wasn’t armed, I could’ve taken him to the floor ten times by now. But this isn’t a cage match.
I lower one hand and slowly reach behind me, tapping Molly’s leg and pointing to the floor. Who the fuck knows if she can even see what I’m doing.
But a second later, she gently squeezes my side.
That’s my girl.
I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. The next time he points that gun elsewhere, I’m going for him.
“So, who does my mother owe?” I ask.
“A guy I work for.” He paces closer. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. If you expect me to give you money, I want to make sure her tab’s paid in full and I don’t see you again.”
“What? You think I’m gonna give you a receipt or something?” He flashes a dirty-toothed grin.
Behind me, it feels like Molly’s sliding down to the floor, using my body and our gunman’s inattention as cover.
“How much?” I ask. Just keep him talking.
“Twenty k.”
I choke on a laugh. “You think I have twenty thousand dollars in my pocket?”
He glances around the garage. “You got tools and shit here.”
“This isn’t my place.”
“Ain’t my problem.”
My blood’s boiling but I pretend to slump my shoulders and look defeated. “If I put together that kind of cash, I’m gonna need some assurances that this won’t happen again,” I say. “I’m not an ATM for my mother.”
“I’ll get him on the phone for ya.” He reaches in his pocket, lowering the gun in the process.
I’ll never have a better chance than this. I launch myself forward, wrap one hand around the barrel of the gun, forcing it down. With my other hand, I grip his wrist and give it a vicious twist, slowly rotating the gun until it’s pointing at his stomach. He screams and drops to the floor, his bony knees making a sick thud against the concrete.
“Stop! Stop!” he screams.
In an organized fight, hell, even in an underground match, I would’ve released him by now. But this is life or death. I yank the gun out of his hand, but keep rotating his wrist until there’s a sickening, but satisfying, snap.
He screams and his eyes bug as he stares at his hand. I set the gun on the roof of Molly’s car and curl my fingers in his shirt, dragging him up. I slam my fist into his face twice, then drop him.
Behind me there’s a scraping and a clang. Molly rushes forward, a crowbar clutched in her hands. She raises it sideways like a field hockey stick and plows it into the back of his knee.
He shrieks again, clutches his dangling hand to his chest and half-rolls, half-crawls toward the open garage door.
Molly brings the crowbar down again, smashing his ankle. The tip hits the concrete floor with a hard clang, probably rattling her teeth. The man howls and rolls onto his back.
She opens her hands and the crowbar clatters onto the floor.
