Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

What if I was somewhere The Line Cutter wouldn’t expect? Wouldn’t even think to check?

  I stared at the massive hoard on either side of me. Difficult to climb, even with two good legs. In the shape I was in, impossible.

  But I can do impossible.

  I pulled myself up on a sofa buried in old clothes, and got one foot under me. Then the other foot.

  I’d seen TV shows about hoarding, and they usually involved piles of garbage and old food, so haphazardly thrown together that tip-overs were inevitable.

  But Sowa had taken great care with her collection. The stacks were orderly. Clothing and towels folded. Boxes labeled and sealed.

  I pushed against some boxes, hard, and managed to shove some back. Then I pushed on the boxes stacked on those boxes—

  —making a big, cardboard staircase.

  Stairs. My nemesis.

  But an even bigger nemesis was outside the door, trying to get in.

  BANG!

  BBBRRRRRTTTT!

  BANG!

  Could I lift my foot high enough?

  I had no idea.

  But I also didn’t have a choice.

  I leaned on the boxes with one hand, then raised my knee, grabbing my Velcro gym shoes with my other hand—god how I hated those shoes—and placing it on the sofa.

  Now the hard part.

  Reaching up for the boxes, finding one with some weight to it, I palmed the sides and then tried to lift myself up, pushing with both legs, fighting to stand on the sofa.

  My muscles trembled. My whole body hurt. Every breath was hell, probably because I had cracked ribs under the Kevlar.

  But I would not give up. I could not give up.

  I took all of the effort I’d wasted during months of rehab, and put it into that one task.

  Get up on the sofa.

  Get up on the sofa.

  GET UP ON THE DAMN SOFA!

  And my foot left the floor, and my body shook, and my muscles screamed NO! but I wasn’t listening to them, and then there I was, on the damn sofa.

  I repeated the process, lifting my foot, grabbing my shoe, putting it on the first box of the makeshift stairs. It should be easier, because rather than climb vertically, I was moving up and over, on a 45 degree angle.

  It wasn’t easier.

  This height was too much. I couldn’t get my foot on the box.

  Okay. A setback. Not a finale.

  I needed to revise and adapt.

  Couldn’t get my foot high enough? Fine.

  I could get a knee up there.

  Then, pushing and pulling and straining and lifting, the other knee.

  BANG!

  “Why haven’t you shot me yet, wheelchair lady? I’ll tell you why. No bullets. But I have lots and lots of bullets. And I’m coming in.”

  One more box to go, this one labeled POTS & PANS. Heavy. I got a good grip on it, ignored the tremors in my legs, ignored the all-over pain, ignored the fear, and I focused and heaved and stretched and got my knee on it.

  Almost there.

  BANG!

  No failure. It wasn’t an option.

  Five plus decades of life all came down to that moment.

  Get up onto that last box, or die.

  BANG!

  “Almost got it, wheelchair lady! You ready for me?!”

  Bitch, I was born ready.

  I thrust my body upward, getting on top. My forehead grazed the ceiling.

  Eat your heart out, Dr. Mount Everest.

  BANG!

  And the shooter was through the door.

  I belly-flopped onto the box, pulling myself across the top of the hoard, and my hand broke through the top packing tape and hit something cold and solid. I shifted my weight and pulled it out.

  A cast iron frying pan.

  I had the height advantage.

  I had the element of surprise.

  And now I had a viable weapon.

  “What the eff is going on in here? Are you a hoarder, wheelchair lady? How can you even fit your chair in here?”

  I watched The Line Cutter’s head bob down the main aisle, to the fork in the hoard.

  I’d gone left. Sowa had gone right.

  The Line Cutter turned right.

  Thinking quick, I shoved a box to my right, hard, sending it tumbling to the floor.

  The Line Cutter stopped and changed direction, coming my way. Quick.

  I held my breath.

  The shooter came closer.

  I knew what I had to do.

  All during rehab, gravity had been my enemy. Struggling to walk. Struggling to stay on the parallel bars. Struggling to climb the stairs. Struggling not to fall.

  But today, gravity was my BFF.

  The Line Cutter walked directly under me, not thinking to look up.

  Big mistake.

  I pushed off with one hand and both legs, going over the edge of the boxes, falling on The Line Cutter while swinging the cast iron pan, aiming for the face.

  I connected. Hard.

  Then I connected with the floor, even harder.

  Gravity ceased being my bestie, and my forehead bounced off the carpeting.

  Seeing stars, unable to breathe because my cracked ribs got cracked even more, I turned onto my side and watched The Line Cutter’s nose bleed like a faucet had been turned on.

  I took the opportunity to swing the pan again, aiming for a knee, but the shooter stepped away and raised the modified semiautomatic and fired just as I was able to get the pan in front of my face.

  Bullets stitched across my vest, and pinged against the cast iron, and then before I could even focus on a last thought, the gunfire stopped.

  I chanced a look. The gun had jammed.

  Luck.

  I jack-knifed into a sitting position and dropped the pan, stretching for the weapon, grabbing the drum magazine, and we played tug of war for a few seconds before I pulled it away—

  —momentum taking over and the firearm flipping through the air, into the hoard.

  For a moment, we stared at each other. The Line Cutter made a sound. A harsh, barking sound.

  Laughter.

  “Look at that pan. Stopped four bullets. Moms was right.”

  “It’s over,” I said, watching the noseblood soak the City Warriors mask.

  “Nah. Not yet. Gaff’s Rule Number Eleven. Always have a back-up weapon.”

  The Line Cutter jammed a hand into the gun bag and came out with a small semi-auto.

  “I haven’t fired this one yet. I’m fiending to try it out.”

  I stared into the barrel.

  Not the first gun I ever stared into.

  But it would be the last.

  My luck had run out.

  And then Sowa Shadid came up from behind and placed the barrel of a forty-five caliber 1911 against the shooter’s neck—

  —and pulled the trigger.

  The Line Cutter dropped, falling next to me, a fountain of blood squirting my face. I took the weapon, threw it to the side, and pulled off the balaclava, pressing it to the chunk missing from the young girl’s neck.

  But there was no way I could save her. Sowa had severed the carotid. Or the jugular. Or both.

  I watched the life drain out of The Line Cutter’s eyes, and her lips moved, saying something.

  It sounded like, “for the lulz.”

  Then she was still.

  I glanced up at Sowa.

  “I kept everything,” Sowa said. “I didn’t throw anything away.”

  Then she put her husband’s gun to her temple.

  “No! Please, Sowa, no!”

  Sowa stared at me, tears in her eyes.

  “Too many people died today, Sowa. Please don’t do this.”

  “I want to be with my family.”

  “I know you do, Sowa. But not like this.”

  She closed her eyes. “I’ve taken a life. I’ve used a gun to take a life.”

  I tried to sit up, but pain prevented it. “You saved lives, Sowa. My life. Dozens, m
aybe hundreds, more. So did your husband. His gun just saved hundreds. He’d be so proud of that. But would he be proud if you used his gun on yourself?”

  She didn’t answer. I saw her trigger finger begin to flex.

  “Please, Sowa. I’m begging you. No more deaths today. Please.”

  Her hand shook. “When will this stop, Jill? We can’t solve this with thoughts and prayers. How many people have to die before somebody actually does something?”

  The question of questions. One I didn’t think I could ever answer.

  But right then, I had an answer.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be waiting for somebody to do something. Maybe we should be doing something. But you can’t do anything, you can’t help anyone, if you kill yourself. You can’t help solve the problem if you’re gone, Sowa. And this is a problem we need to solve.”

  “You really think I can make a difference?”

  “I think you can make all the difference, Sowa Shadid. But only if you make the right choice.”

  Long seconds passed.

  Sowa opened her eyes—

  —and lowered the gun to her side.

  I managed to sit up, managed to reach for it, managed to take it away from her, and then she knelt down and put her arms around me and we cried and cried and cried and cried until the police finally came.

  “I ain’t afraid to love a man. I ain’t afraid to shoot him either.”

  ANNIE OAKLEY

  “Nothing we’re going to do is going to fundamentally alter or eliminate the possibility of another mass shooting…”

  JOE BIDEN

  JACK

  I sat in my wheelchair in the lobby, a rescue blanket wrapped around me, watching as the paramedics brought Dr. Agmont out on a gurney.

  “Who’s the wounded healer now, Doc?” I asked him.

  He smiled, somehow managing to look dazzling even with a bunch of bullets in him. “That would be me. But I have to say, Jack, that you’re the first patient in years who proved me wrong.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Your archetype. I’ve never been so wrong in my entire career. You’re not the wounded healer.”

  “What am I, then?”

  “You’re the hero, Jack Daniels.”

  Agmont’s wife—who did look like a supermodel, even in a hurricane—hurried up to us and kissed him all over his face until his complexion was the color of her lipstick.

  She rode with him to the hospital, and another in an endless stream of ambulances pulled up just as they were bringing down my mother.

  I told the medics to wait and I rolled over to her gurney and held her hand. “You okay?” I asked.

  She grunted once. Then she raised her right eyebrow, just a little bit.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay, too. I need to talk to a few more responders, but I’ll see you at the hospital later.”

  A grunt.

  I got up out of the chair, kissed her forehead.

  “Pussy,” she whispered.

  Wow, did I love that woman.

  I sat. First responders asked me questions. Second responders asked me questions.

  I remembered something Mr. Rogers said. Whenever something scary happened, look for the helpers. There were always helpers.

  Someone eventually figured out that I was injured, and I was ordered to the hospital, which was fine with me. A reporter came over, followed by a camera crew, and I kept my head down and feigned sleep. They moved along to Mr. and Mrs. Fincherello, and Mr. Fincherello told them what he’d told the other eight reporters.

  “I did it all for the love of my life, my dearest, sweetest wife. Because she promised me a blowjob.”

  I’d asked a few cops to get in touch with my husband at our neighbor’s house, but cell towers were still out, and land lines still busy, even though Hurricane Harry had been downgraded to a Category 1 and was expected to die out within a day or two.

  So far, the death toll was at 32, including The Line Cutter. She had no ID on her, but a car from Ohio was found in the parking lot.

  Her story would come out. There would be thoughts and prayers. There would be outrage and demands for change. Maybe Sowa Shadid would be part of that change.

  And maybe, this time, something would actually be done.

  “You’re not fooling me, Jack.”

  I turned. Phin, standing there in that bomber jacket I bought him.

  My heart melted.

  “Fooling you how?”

  “You did it again. You saved everyone. Like you always do.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Am I right?” Phin asked.

  I didn’t confirm it. But he knew me so well I didn’t need to.

  “Where’s Sam?”

  “With the Patels. They let me borrow their car.”

  “Did the police call you?”

  “No. Saw it on the news. Figured you were doing your thing again.”

  “Is this my thing? Bringing death wherever I go?”

  “You don’t bring death, Jack. You go up against it. Over and over. And you always come out on top. I gotta say, you’re the most impressive person I ever met. I love you so much.”

  I was completely out of tears by that point, so when I cried nothing came out. “Really? So why are you cheating on me?”

  Phin made a face. “What are you talking about?”

  “The empty box of condoms, Phin. You’re not using them with me, so who are you using them on?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Do you want to leave me?” My lower lip was trembling. “I gotta be honest here. I don’t think I can live without you. You’re a guy. You have needs. It’s my fault. But I can try harder.”

  “Are you messing with me?”

  “I know, since I peed on you, you don’t want anything to do with me.”

  “You’re not messing with me. You think we stopped having sex because you pissed a little? You think I’m that shallow?”

  “I don’t blame you for cheating.”

  “And you really think I’m cheating.”

  “I saw the condom box.”

  “Jack, we used those. Together. We have sex a few times a week. We just had sex a few days ago.”

  We stared at each other.

  “When?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Holy shit. All this time, you really thought I was cheating?”

  “Why do you think this is funny?”

  “I knew Ambien made you horny. But I didn’t know you wouldn’t remember it the next day.”

  My sleeping pill?

  Oh, shit. I was having blackout sex.

  “We’re sleeping together?” I asked.

  “Yeah. You take your pill, and about an hour later, you attack me. We’ve been doing this for months. You seriously don’t remember?”

  “Do I pee on you?”

  He laughed. “No. It’s fine. It’s great, actually. The best sex of our marriage.”

  “We’ve been having the best sex of our marriage and I don’t remember it?”

  Phin shook his head. “This is hysterical. McGlade is going to love this when I tell him.”

  McGlade? Harry McGlade?

  “You’re talking to McGlade?”

  “Sure. We got this bromance thing going on.”

  I don’t know what surprised me more, that my marriage was solid, or that my husband was actually friends with Harry.

  “I need two favors from you,” I told him.

  “Name them.”

  “First, next time we make love, I want to do it without any sleeping pills.”

  “Done. And the second?”

  I pushed myself up out of my wheelchair and stood, facing him. “Kiss me so hard you take my breath away.”

  He did. And it was so good that maybe I peed a little bit.

  And neither of us cared.

  “Gun control is like trying to reduce drunk driving by making it tougher for sober people to own cars.”

  UNKNOWN

  “Firearms manu
facturers usually find themselves playing defense.”

  BOB BARR

  EPILOGUE ONE

  SOMEWHERE IN MONTANA

  As he addressed the board of directors, Merican Gun Company CEO Wilson Tedley pressed the remote button to bring up the next PowerPoint graphic, which showed steadily declining sales.

  “As you are well aware, this is our seventh consecutive quarter loss since our country elected a Republican President. When no one is worried about their Second Amendment rights being taken away, the whole industry slumps. But we just got some news that can’t possibly be any better. Ladies and Gentlemen, a round of applause for our Team XQR recruitment leader, Barney Zapadow.”

  Cordial applause. But Tedley knew that would change after Barney spoke. He shook Barney’s hand, the one with all the gold rings, and then handed him the remote.

  “Good afternoon, all. You’re all well aware of The Line Cutter shootings in South Carolina and Ft. Myers. It has just been leaked to the press that the suspect, eighteen-year-old girl Guthrie Slessinger, was using a Merican XCQ-TER9.”

  This time, the applause was stronger.

  “Better yet, the 9mm was modified with parts from our sister company, Good Ole Boy Incorporated. Silencer, giggle switch, drum magazines, and laser sights. We expect there will be public outcry for a ban on giggle switches, but that will take several weeks. In the meantime, we can sell our remaining stock to dealers at ten times current retail value.”

  More strong applause. Barney hit the remote button.

  “As you can see from this slide, we’re predicting next quarter profits to be quadruple over last quarter, with a 700% rise in female buyers.”

  That resulted in huge applause, and several board members, most of them women, stood up to clap.

  Tedley smiled, and walked up to Barney with a small box. “Great work, Barney. As you no doubt expected, I’m honored to be presenting you with your eleventh MGC recruitment ring.”

  He handed over the box and shook Barney’s hand again. When the applause died down, Tedley asked, “Anything new on the recruitment circuit?”

  “My team and I have been to eleven gun shows in the last week, and have sold Mericans to twelve new prospects, one of which is a woman. We know that a Level 5 active shooter scenario always spawns copycats, so I wouldn’t be surprised if there is another incident within the next few days.”