“Stay behind me. Don’t talk. Don’t interfere. Just watch, no matter what happens.”
“Understood.”
He shows me how to use the pistol—how to engage and disengage the safety, how to eject the magazine, and then hands it to me with a stern, serious glare.
“Never draw a weapon on someone unless you’re ready to use it to kill them. And if you’re not ready to shoot to kill, the safety is on. Got it?”
I nod again. “Got it.” I press the safety so it’s on and shove it behind the waist of my skirt at the small of my back. Drape my shirt over it. “This is way more uncomfortable than they make it look in the movies,” I say, wriggling my spine side to side.
He laughs. “Yeah, well, movies get a lot of shit wrong, especially where firearms are concerned.” He exits the Tahoe, pocketing the keys. “Let’s go, mama. Remember, stay behind me.”
We approach the front door, right up the front walk. Pistol at his back, hands empty, Chance gestures for me to stand behind him and to the side. Then, taking a step back, he lunges forward and plants a kick to the door, just left of the knob. The door frame splinters into shredded shards of wood, the door itself rocketing inward and hanging from the topmost hinge. Immediately, shouts arise. Chance stomps in, and I watch from my place on the porch.
There are four men in the living room—two on a couch, one on a love seat, and Alvin in his customary place in his easy chair, facing the door. There are drugs and drug paraphernalia on the low coffee table—baggies, pipes, bongs, ashtrays, lighters—as well as bottles of liquor and cans of beer and packs of cigarettes.
Alvin is reaching down to the floor left of his chair—he keeps a sawed-off shotgun there, I know. I should’ve warned Chance, probably. But Chance is there, too fast for Alvin to make the grab. With one hand, Chance yanks Alvin out of his chair and flings him across the room to slam into the two men on the couch. Bending, unhurried, Chance snags the shotgun, a single-barrel, pump-action shotgun with a shortened barrel. He racks the pump with one hand, then tosses it up and catches it, angling it at the tangle on the couch.
“Stay still, fuckwads.” Chance steps closer, presses the barrel to Alvin’s nose. “Sit. Hands on your head.”
Moving slowly, dazed, Alvin wiggles to his ass on the couch.
“Annika, in here. At my side.” Chance barks the order.
I move in and stand at his side, slightly behind him.
Alvin glares at me, at Chance. “You’re makin’ a big fuckin mistake, big man.”
Chance grins. “Motherfucker, you don’t know shit.” He eyes the men on the couch, the other on the love seat. “Empty your pockets. Slowly. I’ll shoot your goddamn heads off if you so much as twitch in a way I don’t fuckin’ like.”
The men comply, dumping out packets of smokes, baggies, change, wallets, phones.
“Weapons,” Chance snarls.
“We ain’t strapped,” one of them whines. “Can’t come to Alvin’s strapped. Everyone knows that.”
Chance jerks his head at them. “Pat ’em down, mama.” To them, then. “Up. On your feet. Hands laced on your heads. Move slow.”
I do as I’m told, patting their waists, pockets, pant legs, ankles. “Clean,” I say, and move back to his side.
“Fuck off. And I mean fuckin’run.” Chance gestures with the shotgun.
The men run, sprinting out the door, leaving their belongings on the coffee table.
Alvin leans back on the couch, arms stretched out, casual. “Now what, bitch? Gonna shoot me?”
“Did I say you could move?” Chance snaps. “Hands on your head. You don’t even fuckin’ blink unless I say so.”
Alvin just lifts his chin, defiant. Stupid.
There’s no warning, no wind up—Chance’s foot lashes out in a scything sideways arc, smashing against Alvin’s cheek. Finishing with a lithe spin, Chance comes back to a wide stance, shotgun back in Alvin’s face—from which he’s now bleeding, cheek split open, blood seeping from loosened teeth. I’m pretty sure teeth are missing, or a cheekbone is broken, or both.
“Hands…on…your…head.” Chance bites out each word.
Immediately, Alvin sits upright, hands laced on his head, drooling blood from a jaw that won’t close properly.
I wince, watching him bleed. And I realize that Chance doesn’t need the guns…they’re for show, for intimidation value. He’s got no intention of using them unless absolutely necessary.
Heisthe weapon.
