by Ann Black
“Hello John,” he smiles.
Turning to face him, I casually put my hands into my pockets and feel my camping knife. “Hello Kyle, how can I help you?” I say, wiggling the knife up my watchband and sliding my hand further into my sleeve.
He points a gun at my head and smiles, “First we’re going to visit the ATM and then we’re going for a little walk out the back. You give me any trouble and I’ll shoot the two cleaning ladies having their fag and cuppa in the lounge, and then I’ll shoot you. Got it?” he says, knocking me hard in the forehead with the barrel. “Take your hands out of your pockets,” he orders.
Obeying, I carefully hold my cuff to ensure it doesn’t ride up as I lift my hand. Kyle frisks my pockets and pulls out my wallet. He begins to search one-handed for credit cards and stuffs the few hundred dollars cash into his jeans.
I need to buy some time. Where the fuck is Bob? “You look good as a chic, Kyle. Learn how to take it in prison, did you? Enjoy being the bitch?”
His eyes narrow slightly and just as I’d hoped, he’s distracted enough for the gun to lower slightly.
Acting fast, I grab the hand with the gun and kick him hard in the knee since I can’t reach his balls and follow up with a vicious punch directly on top of his lowered head. He’s strong and spins me round, punching me hard in the face and stomach with his free hand. I’m winded but manage to grab his other hand and kick him again in the leg, as he head-butts me in the face.
Pain roars through my head. I feel dizzy and suddenly weak, which gives him the advantage. My knife drops to the floor and I feel myself sinking, when the door bursts open and I make out Bob yelling, “Put the fucking gun down Kyle!” Kyle spins me in front of him and I feel his arm rebound as the gun goes off.
My ears are ringing and I realise that Bob’s gone down. Somewhere inside me there’s an old fault line that finally cracks open. Adrenaline kicks in, shielding me from much of the pain in my head, which allows me to focus again.
I see a brief look of surprise on Kyle’s face as I grab the hand with the gun and pull it wide, using my other hand I chop down hard on his elbow. There’s a loud crack and Kyle wails. Working fast, I punch hard into his face, and kick his knee-cap, making him fall to the hard tiled floor.
Grabbing the gun, I sit on top of him and hold it to his head. Kyle’s face is bloodied and he’s semi-conscious, “Feels good doesn’t it John?” he manages before passing out.
The question forces a second of introspection and I realise it does feel good. I’m in control. I can take care of him right now. No parole board, no botched evidence. Like squashing a cockroach, all I have to do is pull the trigger and I’ve eradicated the problem.
“Doc, Doc!” I turn and see blood gushing in a torrent out of Bob’s left femoral artery.
“Fuck.” I mutter. If I don’t stop that wound Bob will die from blood loss.
Some saner part of myself returns as I clamber off the unconscious Kyle, stow the gun in my pocket and stumble across to Bob. Tearing off my belt, I fashion a tourniquet. “Stay with me Bob,” I say. Thankfully, the wound seems to be in the upper thigh, rather than the groin, giving me space to manage the blood flow.
It’s hard to see. Wiping a hand across my face, I notice blood on my hand. I must be bleeding into my eyes, which is making things fucking hard.
There’re voices shouting in the hall. It sounds like help is finally arriving.
Looking across, I see Kyle getting groggily to his feet. He washes his face one handed, fixes his wig, dons his glasses and grabs my cards, “I’ll be seeing you around, John.” He stands on Bob’s chest on his way out the door.
As I work on Bob I hear Kyle yelling, “Help! Help! Please...Oh God. There’s blood everywhere!”
Bob grunts in pain and looses consciousness.
Sunday, 4th September, 11:20am
Walking slowly down the hospital corridor, I scan the doors numbers for Bob’s room. I’ve been given the all clear to go home, but it’ll be weeks before I recover from my injuries. The migraines from the facial fractures are the worst, but they’ll resolve in time.
I reach Bob’s room and knock briefly before walking in. “Hello, Bob,” I say, pleased to see him sitting up and looking pissed off as he flicks through the TV channels.
“Morning, Doc. What’s this?” he says, noticing I’m fully dressed, “you been given the all-clear?”
“Yeah, time to go home,” I answer.
“Boys tell me Kyle’s left the state for a while. He’ll be back though. He’s just wants to avoid the attention for a while. Undercover Ops say the big boys won’t have anything to do with him while he’s this hot,” Bob explains.
I nod. “He’ll find a way to build himself up again. Then he’ll want to settle the score with us. You realise that don’t you?
Bob nods, “Yeah, well. Nearly got the fucker this time. ‘Least he’s on the run. The brass are throwing a shit load of cash at it too ... we’ll get him,” he adds with quiet certainty.
As I get into the taxi my phone rings—it’s Chloe. “Hello Chloe.”
“Nurse Chloe to you, John,” she clips, “Have you been taking your medication?”
Visualising what she means makes me hard, “No, Nurse Chloe.”
“Well, I’ll have to come over then, won’t I?”
We arrange a time and I tuck my phone into my shirt pocket, since there’s no way I’ve got room in my pants. Looking out the taxi window, the city seems alive with life and colour—spring is in the air. Kyle is still out there, but there’s no fear anymore.
Just as Bob said, we’ll get him, he’s fallible...and I’m looking forward to having another crack.
Watch out for Book Two in the Dr. Epstein’s Couch: Criminal Minds Series.
“Pressure” by Ann Black is due for publication in July 2014.
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Dedication
Week One
Week Two
Week Three
Week Four
Week Five
Week Six