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Chapter Eighteen
Pee Bee
It was darker than a motherfucker in Whip’s kitchen, but there I sat, waiting for his dumb ass to come home. Sooner or later I knew he would, even if it was just to get some stuff for the road. With the silenced pistol in my lap, and a straight razor in my pocket, I was ready to give him exactly what the other three men got, which was much less than what he deserved.
The life of a one-percenter is an interesting life to live. Sometimes years pass, and it’s nothing but breathing in and breathing out. Then, something happens, and each day is like a trip through a booby-trapped minefield – one carefully placed step after another.
Without having some kind of laws in effect, society would be in utter turmoil. In a world without strict rules and regulations, it would stand to reason that the strong would survive, and the weak would perish, but I’m not convinced that’s actually the case.
At least not in the world I live in.
Outlaws live beyond the limits of conventional law, most abiding to a strict set of moral codes and standards that prevent the complete collapse of the world they live in. Outside the world of the outlaw, two types of people live.
Law abiding civilians, and the lawless. One adheres to society’s standards. To the other, there are no rules.
The lawless prey on any and everything that will provide them with a means to fuel their unrestricted life for one more day, never caring who or what they harm in the process.
The lawless have one concern.
Themselves.
The faint sound of a motorcycle exhaust shook me from what was soon to be a light sleep. I glanced at my watch.
3:30 a.m.
As the sound grew closer, I stood up, stretched, and checked the breech of the pistol. I’d checked it half a dozen times before, but doing it was from force of habit.
The garage opener activated, and I grinned to myself. One way or another, satisfaction was going to come. Hidden behind the doorway that led into the kitchen, I could see into the living room, but it would be almost impossible for anyone entering from the direction of the garage to see me.
I lowered myself to the floor, pointed the pistol toward the living room, and waited.
I heard the bike pull into the garage. The garage door closed, and then the door to the house opened. In the complete silence, the sound of the creaking floor warned me of his arrival. With each strep that he took, I held my breath and waited.
As his silhouette passed into my line of sight, I steadied my gloved fingertip against the trigger.
“What’s shakin’, motherfucker?” I asked.
He gasped and jumped to the side, still uncertain of where I was.
“Raise both your hands in the air right now, or I’ll shoot you.”
The little bit of light that seeped in through the blinds illuminated him enough that I could see the expression on his face. Concerned, and still unsure of my exact whereabouts, his eyes narrowed. He scanned the perimeter of the living room for a glimpse of me.
But his hands didn’t immediately go up.
I pointed the pistol at his left thigh and pulled the trigger. The sound from the silenced .45 caliber pistol was about as loud as a can of beer being opened. The screaming that followed was deafening.
He fell to the floor.
I stood up.
Over the sound of his wailing and crying, I gave my only demand. “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em, or I’ll put one in your other leg.”
His arms shot out to his sides.
“I need…a…I need a tourniquet. I’m gonna bleed…bleed to death.”
I pointed the pistol at his other leg and pulled the trigger. “Shut the fuck up.”
