Kill Whitey

“You…” I whispered. “You want to kill your own baby?”

“Nyet. I want to save my child. It is that cunt of a whore who wants to abort it.”

“Bullshit.”

His face twitched and I saw it in his stare, knew that he was about to pull the trigger. I started blubbering, doing my best to look frightened and distraught. It wasn’t much of a stretch. I threw my hands over my face and drew my legs up against my chest—sort of a seated fetal position. At the same time, I kept the metal beneath my shoe, dragging it closer still. I put my hands on the floor and begged.

“Don’t shoot me, man. I’m sorry, okay? I’m fucking sorry. She tricked me and I love her and I don’t want to fucking die. Just let me go. I’ll get you your fucking money. Let me go and I’ll—”

My fingers closed around the shard. Shrieking, I stabbed it into Whitey’s thigh, pushing it through his pants leg and deep into his flesh. Whitey screamed. The gun went off. Something popped inside my head, followed by an excruciating pain in my right ear. I smelled something burning. At first, I thought he’d shot me, but then I realized it was just the force of the concussion so close to my head. I was deaf in my right ear, at least temporarily. And the smoke was coming from my hair. It was on fire.

I yanked the strapping band free and stabbed him again. This time, I aimed for his groin. The metal slid in easily, and Whitey’s screams got louder. At least, I guess they did. I could barely hear him above all the ringing in my ears. He swung the pistol around, but I grabbed his wrist with my free hand and held it away from me, forcing the weapon over my shoulder. I pulled the makeshift knife out of his crotch and clambered to my feet, still keeping a firm grip on his wrist. Whitey’s face was twisted into a horrific mask of pain and rage. I knew how he felt. My own expression was probably the same.

It didn’t matter that I hadn’t been in a fight since I was a kid. Survival instinct is some impressive shit, because I fought like a fucking Green Beret. Adrenaline and fear and anger surged through me, and the resulting mix brought out something in me that I’d never known I had. The savagery felt good. Right. Playtime was over. My fuck around quotient had been reduced to zero.

We struggled with each other in some kind of demented two-step—a disco dance of death. I twisted his arm, trying to knock the gun loose. Whitey clawed at my shirt with his free hand, his fingers seeking my throat. I punched him in the kidneys and then kneed him in his already wounded groin. The effect was even better than I’d hoped for. Wailing, Whitey dropped the gun. Spasms shook his body and his eyes rolled up in his head. His knees buckled and he toppled over.

Releasing his wrist, I slapped my head with my hands, feeling my burned hair and blistered scalp. Whitey pushed himself up on his elbows. I scrambled for the pistol. The Russian’s foot shot out, tripping me. I stumbled, accidentally kicking the weapon further out of reach. He grasped at me, but I kicked him on the side of his mangled head, right where his ear had been. That seemed to do the trick. Moaning, Whitey shuddered and then lay still.

Without pausing, I picked up the gun and pointed it at him. I didn’t know what kind it was and didn’t give a shit. All I cared about was that it worked. I squeezed the trigger and found that it did. The gun jumped in my hands. I could barely hear the blast. My first shot hit him in the balls, finishing what I’d started with the shard. The second shot blew a hole in his belly. The third shot hit him in the chest. Whitey flopped around on the floor, his arms and legs jittering. I leapt to my feet and stood overtop of him. His teeth were chattering. His eyes rolled uncontrollably.

“Fuck you,” I said a third time. Overused, maybe, but it summed up the situation and my feelings pretty damn well.

I shot him in the head. The bullet made a very small hole but the exit wound must have been a motherfucker, because his head jerked up off the floor and came back down in a splash of brains and skull fragments and blood.

He didn’t move again, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I fired another shot into his chest. When I pulled the trigger a sixth time, the gun clicked empty. I couldn’t hear the click, of course, but it didn’t jump in my hands the way it did when it fired.

I stood there panting, looking down at his corpse. I’d done it. I’d killed Whitey. Not so fucking hard after all. My head was in agony, but despite the pain, I laughed.

“You die pretty easy after all, don’t you motherfucker?”

I was still laughing when I went to search for Sondra. I didn’t bother to look back.

I should have.

sixteen

When I reached the back end of the warehouse, there was still no sign of Sondra. Despite the anger I was feeling towards her, I was worried. What if she’d been hurt? Or what if she’d been captured by the cops and was telling them everything right now?