In Laymon's Terms

“You! Into the office—show me where the fuck that recorder is. I see those damned cameras. And hey, yo—keep an eye on this bitch and the door,” he said to his partner. “I’ll be back in a second.” Jon heard them move, the jangle of keys, a door opening, then closing.

Jon wished he had his gun on him. It was illegal to carry in the State of New York without another special permit. He was lucky he had the gun in the first place: it was damned tough to get a pistol permit in this state. Since he bought it, he’d kept it at home, like a good boy, all the while knowing scumbags like this were everywhere, carrying illegally. He never dwelled upon it, put it out of mind, hoped he’d only need a weapon while at home. Yeah. Right. Lot of good it was doing him or anyone else there.

There was only one robber in the front of the store now, threatening the woman crying over Terry. Jon figured this was the best time to move. But where?

Down at the end of the wall, there was a door leading into the cooler. If he could get back there, another wall between him and the robbers, he’d be safer. Unless they searched the store. He didn’t think so—they were going after the security camera tape now, and would probably be gone in a few minutes. If he stayed here, there was a chance of his discovery, and these did not seem like the type of guys who wanted a whole bunch of witnesses. Terry—poor bastard—had already been shot. God knows what was going to happen to the cashier and the woman crying over Terry’s body. Would they kill them, too? Jon didn’t know, but wouldn’t put it past these scumbags. Regardless, they wouldn’t appreciate another witness—particularly a guy. He had to move: staying here was stupid.

The cooler door was fifteen feet away. Jon started to crawl as silently as he could. He reached the end of the aisle, looked down toward the front of the liquor store. Terry was wearing sneakers and jeans, lying in a pool of spilled Jose Cuervo and blood. He saw the pantyhose-covered leg of the woman—she was wearing white ones and they had a run, had soaked up the fluids around her and started to stain. He could not see the woman’s face, or her upper body, only the profile of one leg as she knelt over Terry. He could not see the robber either: the shelves were in the way. He could, however, see the door to the office, and the back of the other robber as he blasted the cashier in the face with his fist. He saw a flurry of blonde hair as she went down past the view of the window.

(Quit watching. Move! Move!)

Jon hid himself behind the next row of shelves, paused a moment to catch his breath—he did not realize he had been holding it. He wiped his hands on his shirt, left two smears of dirt from the floor down his chest. His back to the shelves, he faced the cooler. He could see the reflection of the robber now, as well as the woman who cried, and Terry. Terry was lying on his back, but Jon could not see if he was breathing or not. The robber wore a ski mask, long-sleeved button-down shirt, and loose, baggy pants. He held a pistol in his hand, pointed it at the woman’s chest. The woman had a black shirt on, skirt, and dark brown shoulder-length hair. Her hands were to her face as she cried and screamed for Terry.

Terry looked dead. Those bastards, he thought as he watched her act on her grief. Fucking bastards. If he had his SIG P-220, he’d be able to blast the scumbag in the chest if he stood up straight, drop him with two .45’s to the chest, and end this nightmare. But he couldn’t, because it was illegal for him to carry. As illegal as it was, apparently, to shoot someone as you robbed a liquor store.

He watched her for another moment before the thought dawned on him—that he was looking at her reflection—that, from this angle, if she—or the robber—turned, they would see his reflection off the glass.

“Oh, shit,” he said to himself. Time to move. From his sitting position, he tried to lean forward and get his knees kicked out behind him, ready to crawl, but without making any noise. It was difficult. He shouldn’t have sat down. That was dumb. But he needed to catch his breath—not again. He’d stay ready to move until he reached the cooler, and got inside. Then, he could relax a moment and catch his breath—hell, then, he could even call the cops on his cell phone.

Christ, I hope no one calls in.

He reached into his pocket and shut it off, congratulated himself for his quick thinking. Now he just had to stay alive long enough to use it—and that would take more than quick thinking. Doubt curled his forehead as fear broke in a cold sweat. Just make it to the cooler, Jon told himself. Make it to the cooler and call the cops. End this nightmare.