Trauma by Daniel Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

walk away.…
    Abington was about to turn around when he flashed on the faces of those bastards pummeling him with bats and steel rods. He pictured the grate where he’d slept the night before. He thought of the many shelters he had called home, and felt a pang of hunger. A tide of violence rose in his blood as he thought of the VA that had failed him. He drew his weapon.
    The color drained from the teller’s face. Before she could scream, Abington put his finger to his lip, shielding the piece with his body.
    â€œDon’t do anything stupid,” Abington said, gratified to hear more authority in his voice this time. “Give me the money.” From underneath Abington’s grimy shirt he produced an equally soiled paper bag, and handed it to the teller.
    The teller’s hands shook as she filled the bag with thick wads of banded cash, but twice she glanced up to look over Abington’s shoulder at the man to his back.
    While the teller filled the bag, Abington counted the seconds in his head. Five … then ten …
    How much money had she put in there? Maybe a couple thousand. Maybe a little more. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he’d stop to count. He needed to get out of there.
    The teller was reaching for another drawer when Abington realized she was stalling. Her hands were steadier, and she seemed less nervous. Maybe she had tripped the silent alarm.
    Reaching over the counter, Abington ripped the bag from the teller’s hand, leaving her with a little piece of brown paper. He swung around, gun in one hand, money in the other, and saw that the man with the deposit slip had snuck up behind him.
    Midforties with short hair and a square head, the guy trained his weapon—a Glock—on Abington’s chest. He shouted, “Freeze! Police!”
    Abington did not hesitate. The SIG Sauer may have been useless without bullets, but Abington had trained with the SEALs and Delta Force. Even out of shape and practice, he was a fine weapon on his own. Abington dropped his gun and the bag of money and started to raise his hands.
    No trouble. I surrender.
    The officer started to relax, thinking the fight was over. In a fluid motion, Abington grabbed hold of the Glock’s barrel with his right hand while latching his left hand onto the officer’s left wrist. Without hesitating, Abington pulled the left wrist toward him at the same instant he pushed on the barrel of the gun. Thrown off balance, the cop stumbled awkwardly, and a fraction of a second later the Glock had transferred into Abington’s hands. Abington swung the gun in a wide arc, clocking the cop on his left temple with the butt of the weapon. Two heavy thuds followed: one after the impact, and the other when the cop’s limp body crumpled to the floor.
    Reaching down, Abington retrieved the bag of money and his treasured gun. He sprang up waving the cop’s loaded weapon, shooing the terrified customers back.
    â€œJust leave me alone and nobody gets hurt!” Abington shouted.
    Outside the bank, the sun’s glare punished Abington’s corneas. He blinked to clear his vision, but his head was buzzing and he felt lost. What had he done? Jesus, he hadn’t made a plan. No figuring out how he might escape.
    In the distance Abington heard a steady whine of sirens. They were coming for him. Stupid … stupid! His choices were simple: run and get caught, or stand in front of the bank and get caught. He looked at the cop’s gun.
    He supposed he had a third choice. Abington put the weapon to his temple, closed his eyes, and conjured up Janine’s beautiful face. They had had happy times; he tried to focus on those.
    â€œI’m sorry, baby girl,” Abington muttered, thinking of his daughter Olivia. “I let you down, sweetie. I let you down so bad.”
    Abington pressed the barrel of the Glock hard against his skin and squeezed the trigger ever so slightly. Ironic: