by JJ Pike
“Shtf?”
“Stuff hits the fan.”
“Stuff…?
Aggie looked him dead in the eye. “We don’t swear. It’s a matter of honor. Dad doesn’t want Midge to pick up any bad habits.”
“Heard and understood. No swearing around Midge.”
Aggie shook her head. “No swearing anywhere. It’s not necessary.” She turned away from him and smiled. There was a certain satisfaction in being able to tell him exactly what to do.
“Okay. Starting over. There are five major gun groups you need to familiarize yourself with. The handgun, the shotgun, a .22 rifle, a hunting rifle, and a semi-auto rifle.” She had laid her guns out on an old blanket in order of caliber and kickback. She didn’t want him to hurt himself. She had a Sig Sauer Romeo 5, a Mossberg 500 12-gauge, a Glock, and the pistol her granddaddy—Mimi’s husband—had taken with him everywhere he went. Dang, she hadn’t covered the five groups. They’d be back for more practice. It was a good enough start.
She handed him a pair of safety goggles and some ear protection. “They’re the new Sonic Defenders Plus,” she said. “Cut out dangerous noise levels, but allows us to hear one another and, more importantly, hear shots fired.”
“They’re plastic.”
Aggie sighed. They were, but wasn’t everything? She was exhausted by all the plastic-removal talk. “Put them on and keep them on. Safety first.”
She’d set up a target in front of a natural dirt bank so there’d be no chance of accidentally shooting a passing squirrel. She laughed even though it was her own joke. Good thing, because without Dad there to laugh, no one else got her.
She stood beside Michael, gun in hand. “Like I said, safety first. What’s the first rule of shooting?”
“Don’t shoot yourself in the foot?”
That wasn’t too bad, but boy was it going to be a long day.
She raised her weapon and popped four rounds off, hitting the center of the target every time. It was one part showing off and nine parts wanting to feel better about herself. She needed a win.
“Just like that,” said Michael.
“Just like that,” said Aggie. “Okay, so first up: safety.” She handed him an unloaded pistol. She’d had some good times with that gun, out with Dad tracking rabbits. Couldn’t think about Dad today. Had to think about training this loser.
He did what every newbie does: he held the gun at his waist, the barrel pointed at her.
“Rule number one, never point your gun at anyone unless you want to destroy them. Not me, not someone on the range, not yourself. Hold it down and away. I care about your feet as much as you do.” Dad had said those exact words to her, but she’d been six or seven when she started to learn to shoot and Michael was 400 or 500 years old, at least.
“Check the chamber.”
Michael looked at the weapon in his hands. “How do I do that?”
So, pre-basics. He was a city boy, through and through.
There was a horrendous pop to their east, then another. They both turned. “Stay still and quiet.”
Another pop. No mistaking that sound. Someone was shooting. There were no other neighbors close enough to be heard, which meant it was one of their own. They wouldn’t have set up another range without telling her. Something was off. Another pop, different caliber. Different gun. Different shooter.
“Stay here.”
Michael’s mouth moved. He was going to fight her.
“You don’t know what you’re doing. You can’t handle yourself. You’re a liability. I don’t care if you get shot, but I don’t want you muddying the terrain. Stay here. Stay quiet. I’ll come get you when it’s clear.” Aggie fell into a crouch and sprinted back towards the cabin. Pop, pop, pop. Someone meant business. She needed to take this slowly.
She stopped at the edge of what used to be their home away from home and crouched behind the bear barrel. She snuck a look at the driveway. There was a car. Maroon. Big, crumpled bumper. Arthur’s car. He was behind his door, rifle in hand, shooting at who? She looked over at the backhoe. It was unmanned. Had they all gotten into the ditch? Jim’s ATV was close by, but no Jim either. She couldn’t see her people or tell who Arthur was shooting at.
Pop. Pop, pop, pop.
He was tearing up the ground close to the dig, but as far as she could tell he hadn’t hit anyone.
So, who’d shot back at him? Had to be Jo. She was the only one carrying. And she was trained so she wouldn’t be wasting bullets like this idiot. But where was she? Arthur was directly in her line of sight. Jo was nowhere to be seen. Good. A pro. Someone she could rely on.
Aggie eased the safety off and waited. Three shots from Arthur. No, two shots from his rifle, one from a pistol of some kind. Okay, so there were two shooters by his car. Great. What did he want? No sane person went and shot up someone’s home because they wouldn’t let you camp out on their land. That was insane. She’d heard stories of hold-ups in corner stores in Manhattan; people dying for the price of a pack of gum. Maybe he was that unhinged. She would be foolish to write him off. He might be taking wild pot-shots at them now, but for all she knew, he had an arsenal in his car or a million rounds of ammunition.
She needed a route to get around back of him. They were in a triangle—Arthur behind his car door, her behind the bear barrel, and Jo someplace south of the backhoe. If the house had been there, she would have had the perfect cover, but it wasn’t, so she was going to need to use the trees. She peered around the side of the bear barrel again. He was crouching down, reloading by the sounds of things. She couldn’t see his second shooter. With any luck that meant they couldn’t see her. Chances were good that second shooter was the other side of Arthur’s car. With any luck they were taking instructions from Arthur and not looking her way. She darted to the nearest pine. It had a good-sized trunk, but she wouldn’t be able to move much one way or the other.
“I see you.” Arthur shouted. “Don’t think I don’t.”
Did he mean her? Had he looked up just as she got there? Was part of her sweater visible? The bullets ricocheted off the top of the dirt pile to her right. He meant someone else. She was still safe. She was never going to get a body shot because he was behind his car door. And she didn’t want to shoot him in the head. She needed to go low and wound him. She rounded the tree and took a shot at his leg. He shifted his weight right as she got her shot off and she missed. All she needed to do was nick him. She didn’t want major bloodshed and she didn’t want to shatter his ankles. She wanted him to go away. If he died on their property, there’d be police and questions and an investigation. They wanted none of that.
She slid down the tree as slowly as she could, then wriggled onto the ground so she was completely flat. She rolled over, then crab-walked herself back behind the next tree. He might have seen her, but if he did he was taking his sweet time lining up his shot.
She raised her head, just enough to survey the terrain. She caught a glimpse of the other shooter on his side, low to the ground like her, but the other side of Arthur’s car just as she’d suspected.
“Put your weapon down.” It was Jo. So, she was behind the dirt pile, the other side of the backhoe. Good. Smart tactical decision. Jo wasn’t half bad. Neither was she, all things considered. She’d gotten the layout of the gun battle right, based solely on the sounds of gunfire and some decent inference work. Her dad would be proud. This was what he’d trained her for: to protect her family and do so with the minimum amount of bloodshed.
“You can walk away from this,” said Jo. “No one’s hurt and no one needs to get hurt.”
Aggie raised her head again.
Arthur had one hand in the air. Only one. That meant he hadn’t put his gun down.
The Jeep came bouncing up the dirt path from Jim and Betsy’s. No. No no no no no. Betsy had to have heard the shooting. No way she’d come into the middle of this. Nope, she had the radio on full blast. She didn’t know what was going down. Betsy turned it off and stuck her h
ead out of the Jeep window, cheery as ever, completely oblivious. “Lunch time.”
Betsy’s body jerked back, then forward. The windshield shattered. Aggie was up and running towards the Jeep. She didn’t care if he shot her. She had to get to Bets. Get pressure on her wound.
She heard the shots around her and ducked behind a tree. Why wasn’t Jo taking him out?
Then she saw the passenger the other side of Bets. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
Betsy was slumped over the wheel and Midge was in the passenger seat.
“Get down. Get down. Get down.” Midge met Jo’s gaze, but didn’t move. She was frozen in place.
Aggie turned towards Arthur. He was standing straight up, gun aimed at her, his torso in her line of sight. She raised her gun, aiming it right at the center of his body mass. If he got off another round, if he hurt Midge, if he did a single thing, she would end him.
He spasmed, his left shoulder reeling back. The shot had come from behind her. She looked over her shoulder. It was Jo. Nice shot. She’d clipped him but not killed him. Just the way she’d hoped it would go. Another shot. This time from the pistol-holder on his side. She’d recognize the sound of a Ruger MK III anywhere. She used it for small-game hunting and she had no intention of being anyone’s prey. She dropped to the ground. She didn’t need to get in the middle of their crossfire.
“You okay, Midge?” she shouted.
She heard no reply.
“Midge?!”
Still, no reply.
She stood. She couldn’t wait. She sprinted from tree to tree, bullets coming at them every which way. She made it to the Jeep at the same time as Jo. She scrambled in the back, screaming Midge’s name. She saw Betsy first, drenched in her own blood. Midge was crouched down under the dash. Oh, please. Please, please, please, let this be okay.
She pulled Midge into the back. She was a rag doll in her arms and covered in blood. Was it hers or was it Betsy’s? She couldn’t tell. She pulled her close. She was breathing.
“Let me see her,” said Jo.
Aggie sat back. Jo had combat experience, so she was the right person to treat her.
Her world fritzed out. A blank canvas. White hot rage. She climbed out of the back of the Jeep and rounded the side and went at him, shooting the entire way. When she arrived beside his car, he was on the ground, his wife running the other way, the fight over.
Aggie shot him twice. Once in the chest. Once in the head. Perfect kill.
“Screw you,” she said.
Then she shot him again. For Midge.
MELT – Book 3
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Special Thanks
Many thanks to my awesome Beta Team, without whom none of my books would be possible. -Mike
Though writing is usually a solitary act, we're lucky enough to have two brains to bash together to keep us on story-telling track. Beyond the names on the cover, there's a team of professionals behind the paper curtain who make us look like we know what we're doing. I'd like to thank my editor, Erin McCabe, who's wit, wisdom, and brilliance keeps me from sailing into obscurity; the talented Christian Bentulan for his beautiful covers; and our dedicated team of Beta-readers, who give their time, talent, and opinions freely. Any errors that have slipped through the net are mine and mine alone. – JJ Pike