Blood and Silver - 04 by James R. Tuck Read Free Book Online Page B

bandannas noosed around their heads and arms full of jailhouse ink, they raised cheap pistols at me. Spinning on my foot, my back slammed into the wall as I pushed out of their line of fire.
    Time shrank, wrapping us in a bubble. The one in front jerked his finger on the trigger, spitting death into the space I was just in. He held the cheap semiautomatic sideways, playing a video game in his head. The slide convulsed back, hot shell casings flying to plink him in the face. My shoulders flexed, bouncing me off the wall. Three giant strides put me right up in his face. The shotgun swung up over my head.Pushing off the ground,the top of my boot tightened across my instep. I rose up and drove the butt of the gun into the top of his skull. The shock jolted to my shoulders as I bashed him to the floor. His knees went out as he dropped, both legs going into a split. He slumped to the ground, face thudding into the litter-strewn hallway. I let the momentum spin me around as I landed. The shotgun swung down, pointing at the second gangbanger’s face.
    Acne scars stood out on sallow cheekbones as his cardboard brown complexion washed white in the halogen gleam of the tactical light mounted on the shotgun. Sweat popped out below his bandanna, glimmering in trails down the sides of his baby face. White showed all around dark brown irises, pupils shrinking to pinpricks in the harsh glare of the light on the shotgun. Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he looked to be about fifteen years old.
    “Ssssshhhhhhhhhhhh,” I hissed at him. I kept my voice low. “Drop the gun.” His fingers opened, sleek Berretta 9mm tumbling to the floor, lost in the litter. It was a nice gun.
    His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “It’s cool esse, it’s cool.” His voice was brittle with fear.
    “Who else is on your crew?”
    “Nobody, Holmes. Just me and Jaime.” I believed him. The stink of fear rolled off him like cheap cologne.
    “Where’s McMahon?” He shook his head, lips pulled tight, refusing to speak. I pushed the barrel of the shotgun to his face. Blood welled up around the teeth of the breeching shroud as it bit his cheek. “Do you think I’m playing with you? Where. Is. He?”
    He jerked a thumb behind him. “Back there. Please don’t shoot me, man. My grandma’s sick. I needed the money.” Tears streamed out of his eyes.
    He was a kid. He should have been in high school, playing baseball or rugby or something. A tiny spot inside my chest loosened up for him as I looked into that baby face and those fear-filled brown eyes.
    And then I remembered.
    This “kid” was a drug dealer. He sold poison to people, watching them become animals a twenty rock at a time. I remembered the crackhead in front of the house, bringing her daughter to trade for drugs. This “kid” would have been the one answering the door, taking the girl to this McMahon, handing over the nugget of crack cocaine. This “kid” knew about little Kaylee Anne Dobbs, missing now for almost twelve hours.
    That tiny spot in my chest hardened to concrete.
    My boot lashed out, steel toe cracking across his shinbone. I felt it give under my foot with a wet snap. The kid dropped to the ground. A high-pitched scream ripped out of his throat on the way to the floor. He rolled over, still screaming. His hand came up with the Beretta. He had found it in the trash on the floor. He pointed it at me. From two feet away he wouldn’t miss. I whipped the shotgun barrel down, across the bones of his forearm. The steel tube might as well have been a baseball bat and I might as well have been Babe Ruth. His arm snapped over just below his wrist. Ivory bone popped through the skin in a well of dark blood as the Beretta went flying. The kid made a moist choking sound as he stared at his arm.
    Then he passed out cold.
    I stepped over him, moving back through the house. The hallway turned at a ninety-degree angle. I rounded the corner, gun ready, and stepped into a new