by Blake Crouch
He tugged down Porter’s white jockey shorts, and then chuckled to himself.
“You’re uncut,” Mr. K said.
“What?” Porter was terrified and confused and trembling with fear.
“You haven’t been circumcised.”
“Please…whatever you’re thinking—”
“I’m going to ask you one more time, Mr. Porter, for the cash that you owe Mr. Dovolanni. If the answer you provide doesn’t satisfy me, I’m going to circumcise you right here on the floor of your gun shop. Do you understand what I’ve just said to you?”
Porter’s eyes were welling up with tears. “Please, please…”
And now the begging, Mr. K mused. Human beings were so predictable when facing situations of terror.
“…I’ll give you anything…”
There must be some basis for it in Darwinian evolution, but Mr. K had never been able to understand how crying, shitting your pants, and breaking down into hysterics had ever served man or any of his ancestors in life or death scenarios.
“…you want if you…”
If an ancient Cro-Magnon were at the mercy of a saber-toothed tiger or a soldier of an opposing tribe, certainly this type of behavior would have proven futile.
“…only let me…”
Predators couldn’t be swayed by emotion or pleas or despair.
“…explain…”
It wasn’t in their programming. It certainly wasn’t in Mr. K’s. In these situations, only brute force—physical resistance—stood a chance. And yet in all his contract killings and torture-killings, only twice had the mark ever fought back.
“…you’ve gotta understand…”
How had this trait of utter cowardice in the face of fear prevailed through the evolutionary cycle ending at Homo sapien sapien?
“Can you pay me right now?” Mr. K asked calmly. “That’s the only question I’m interested in hearing you answer.”
“Tomorrow,” Porter said. “I’ll rob a fucking bank if I—”
“Hmm. Unfortunately, tomorrow’s no good for me.”
Mr. K pulled the ball-gag out of his pocket and jammed it into Porter’s mouth, had it fastened around his skull in five seconds.
“Did you get a chance to stop by Morrell’s Edges?” Mr. K asked, holding up the ice pick to make sure Porter saw the blade. “He told me it was the sharpest thing he’d ever made. Let’s give it a whirl, shall we?”
Porter raised his head and shrieked through the ball-gag.
“Oh, relax,” Mr. K said. “What I hear, the ladies don’t like a guy with a turtleneck anyway.”
As he reached down, he heard the locking mechanism in the door shift.
Mr. K glanced at the door, back at Porter.
“You typed in the dummy code.”
Porter shook his head violently. Possibly telling the truth.
Mr. K rose quickly to his feet, set the ice pick on the counter, and grabbed his 9mm.
“If I find you’ve lied to me,” Mr. K said, “I’ll spend the next three days taking you slowly apart.”
He stepped toward the door as the lock turned, hearing voices outside, one of them saying, “There it is. Open sesame.”
The door swung inward, and Mr. K found himself facing four people, three men and a woman, all standing in the dark parking lot. He pointed his nine at the first man, the one holding the lock pick and tension wrench.
“We’re closed,” Mr. K said.
Everyone froze. Best case scenario, the quartet got the hell out of there. But they had broken in, so they were obviously a criminal element, and criminals weren’t predictable.
Mr. K quickly did the math in his head. He could get at least two headshots in before the others either scattered or attacked. There were ten bullets in his gun, and the Morrell ice pick was behind him on the counter. He liked his odds, but clean-up would be messy, and the gunfire could attract attention. This being a gun show, they were all probably armed, so he needed to decide now before one of them pulled a weapon and—
“K? That you, K?”
Mr. K squinted into the darkness at the one talking. He had a Mexican accent, something familiar about it.
“It’s me, man. Javier.”
Javier? Mr. K let go of the breath he’d been holding, but he kept the gun pointed.
“Javier. Small world. I wasn’t expecting any company.”
Javier stepped into the light, palms up. He peered behind Mr. K, and then smiled broadly.
“Shit, K. You working? We didn’t mean to interrupt you, man. We just wanted to do a little late night target practice. It’s cool.”
“Who are your friends?”
“Luther, Charles is the one with the lock pick skills, and the lady is Alex. Guys, this is Mr. K. He and I used to do some contract work for the same jefe, years ago. Wet stuff.”
If Javier was cavalier about admitting to murder, Mr. K guessed his associates weren’t likely to go running to the authorities. Still, this was a wrinkle in the night’s previously-scheduled activities, and he didn’t appreciate wrinkles.
“What are you going to do to that man?” the woman, Alex, asked. She was staring at Porter, and Mr. K thought he detected excitement in her voice.
“It’s okay,” Javier said. “They’re cool. If you want us to leave, we can come back later. Or…”
“Or?”
“Or we could help out. Might be fun to shoot at a moving target, if you know what I’m saying.”
Mr. K considered it. Javier was psychotic, and that meant he was unpredictable. Mr. K had seen his work, up close and personal, and while it could have used a touch more finesse it was certainly effective. The smarter move would be to turn everyone away, but then he’d spend the rest of the evening wondering what Javier was up to.
“This is a job for Mr. Dovolanni,” Mr. K said. “The package is supposed to get damaged in handling, but not lost.”
“You mean we can hurt him, not kill him,” the pale one, Luther, said. “I’d be okay with that.”
“A man can take a lot of hurt before he dies,” Charles said. “And I haven’t shot anyone in months. What do you think, Alex? Can you exercise some restraint?”
“I can control myself, not kill him,” Alex said, rubbing her legs together. “But I’m going to have to fuck something later. Just thinking about it gets me hot.”
Javier met Mr. K’s eyes and shrugged. “You game, K? The commission is all yours. We’re just in it for the sport. You know I wouldn’t mess with Dovolanni.”
Mr. K saw some people in the parking lot heading over. He made a quick decision and lowered the gun.
“Come in, lock the door behind you.”
Luther
They all crowded inside, Luther feeling a sense of camaraderie he hadn’t experienced since losing Orson. Much as he was a loner, it was good to occasionally be among those with similar values.
“So, what’s the plan?” Charles said. “Luther, buddy, you got that metal leech thing with you?”
Luther was staring at a target silhouette behind the counter, studying the various points on the arms and legs. “I have a better idea,” he said. Then he explained it to the group.
Javier cut Porter’s zip-ties as the shop owner cried around his ball gag.
“Hollow points for everyone,” Luther ordered.
Everyone began to shout out the ammo they wanted, making Porter fetch the boxes.
Forty-five ACP rounds for Jav’s new Glock and Luther’s Springfield XD Tactical.
Nine-millimeters for Mr. K’s Beretta Px4 Storm.
Three-fifty-sevens for Charles’s Coonan Cadet.
“I object to this,” Mr. K said.
Luther scowled. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem is, we take semi-jacket hollow points into that range and start firing, Porter’s going to be dead in about two minutes.”
“We can put him in a vest,” Charles said. “I bet this douche has some Kevlar lying around.”
“
Even so, and even with what you suggest, it’ll be too easy for him to bleed out, getting shot with these calibers, these rounds.”
“Well, what do you suggest?” Javier asked.
Mr. K turned to Porter. “I assume you stock .22 pistols?”
Porter whimpered, but managed a nod.
“What models?”
The shop owner shook his head, his shoulders sagging.
“What. Models.”
He raised his hand, meekly pointed to the display case.
“The Mark III?”
A nod.
“Get five Rugers and put them on the counter along with three boxes of 20 grain LRs.”
Porter obeyed.
“Plinker rounds, K?” Javier asked, eyeing the boxes. “That shit barely tears through a soda can.”
Mr. K nodded. “Exactly. It’ll wound, but not kill.”
“That doesn’t sound as fun,” Charles said.
“You’ll get to shoot him many more times,” Mr. K said, “and he won’t die.”
Alex broke open one of the cartridge boxes, spilling rounds onto the glass counter. She worked the slide on a Ruger and manually inserted one, aiming it at Charles.
“You want to see how much it hurts?” she asked.
Everyone but Porter and Charles laughed. Charles slapped the gun away, scowling, then picked up a .22 and began to load a clip. Everyone else followed suit.
“Five points for legs and arms, ten points for feet and hands,” Luther said. “Hit the torso, lose twenty. Hit the head, lose fifty.”
“What are the stakes?” Javier asked.
Mr. K shook his head.
“What, K? I know that look.”
“Well,” Mr. K said. “You did sort of crash my party, so I have a proposition for the game.”
“We’re listening,” Alex said.
“I like Luther’s scoring system. I would propose that the losers pay off Mr. Porter’s marker to Dovolanni. It’s fourteen thousand, three hundred. Plus my fee of two thousand.”
“Holy shit,” Charles said. “I can’t swing that much.”
“Don’t worry, bro.” Alex popped in a clip and jacked a round into the chamber. “I got this.”
Javier smiled. “So, you’re a good shot, pretty lady?”
Alex winked. Then she quickly aimed at the analog wall clock across the room, firing four shots in rapid succession.
Everyone looked. She’d shot out the numbers 3, 6, 9, and 12.
Javier whistled. “I think my manhood just became aroused.”
“I’m in,” Charles said.
“I can’t shoot like that,” said Luther, “but I’m game.”
“And that makes cinco,” said Javier. “What’s the winner get?”
Mr. K smiled. “To finish off Mr. Porter, of course.”
Luther knew his chances at winning were slim to none, but he didn’t care. This night was shaping up to be the most fun he’d had in years.
Javier
The firing range was divided into seven stations, but the contestants all gathered at lane 4, the one in the middle.
The shooting area extended back fifty yards.
Reinforced baffles had been situated along the roof and walls for noise mitigation, and in the quiet prelude to the shooting, Jav could hear the hum of the ventilation system.
“Can we take the ball-gag out?” Luther asked, motioning to Porter who was huddled against the wall in a puddle of fear and whimpering. “I want to hear him scream.”
“Me, too,” Alex said.
Mr. K knelt down in front of Porter. “Before I take this off, I want to warn you,” he said. “We’re done with the pleading and the begging and the crying. Do you understand?”
A defeated nod.
“Stand up.”
Porter struggled onto his feet.
“Now walk with me.”
Javier watched Mr. K and Porter duck under the table at lane four and walk downrange. He followed, as did the others, and it took them a minute and a half to reach the sloped concrete berm at the end of the range.
“Ground rules,” Luther said. “You start against that far wall. When you hear the air horn, you have to make it to that end, and back. If you can do that, we won’t kill you.”
“Hey!” Charles said. “We didn’t discuss that part!”
“We have to give him a reason to live,” Luther answered, “Of else he’ll just curl up in a ball and die. I’ve seen it before. It’s no fun.”
“You…you’ll really let…let m-m-m-me live?” Porter stammered.
“You make it there and back, brother, you live.”
“Will you pay my marker, too?”
Mr. K slapped him upside the head. “Don’t get greedy, Mr. Porter.”
Alex
The killers lined up in the middle five lanes, Alex in six, Charles in five, Mr. K in four, Luther in three, and Javier in two. This would be their firing order as well. The men had graciously allowed her to go first, since she was the only woman present.
Dumb asses. Alex knew she could shoot the pants off of any man.
Alex removed the clip and racked the slide a few times to check the action. Then she popped the clip back in, jacked a round, and sighted up the man who stood quivering downrange.
She was so turned on right now.
Since Javier was shooting last, he had the air horn at his station.
“Everyone ready?” Javier shouted, his voice echoing downrange.
“Ready!” Alex shouted.
“Ready!” Charles shouted.
“Ready!”
“Ready!”
Javier said, “Mr. Porter! You warmed-up, loosened-up, and ready to run for your life?”
Porter yelled back, “Please! You don’t have to do this!”
Alex glanced around the dividing wall between hers and Charles’s lanes, saw Javier holding up the air horn canister.
“Mr. Porter, on your mark!”
Alex raised her Ruger.
“Get set!”
Drew a bead on Porter.
“Run, motherfucker!”
The moment the air horn sounded, Alex shot Porter square in his left foot.
Jack
As expected, Clay bought Jack Daniels shots as the first round. Such was the curse of my name.
We were in the hotel bar, which was so packed that we had to fight for room to stand, and sitting wasn’t even close to being an option. I had to wait ten minutes to order a second round, Goose Island beer, and then asked the bartender if there was a liquor store nearby.
“West, half a mile up the street,” he said.
When I shared the information with the boys, they agreed that making a booze run was preferable to drinking elbow-to-elbow with five hundred people in a bar designed to hold half that. We took our bottles outside with us because, hey, Clay and I were cops, and after some vigorous discussion on which direction west was, began to head up the street.
As we passed the range, I head a faint pop-pop-pop, like distant firecrackers.
“Gunshots?” Tequila asked, looking at me.
“Sounds like a small caliber,” Clay said. “Muffled, too.”
I glanced at Porter’s Guns and Ammo. “Could they still be open?”
“Only one way to find out.”
And so our trio headed toward the shop.
Charles
As his sister shouted “Ten points!” Charles was drawing a bead. Porter had managed to stay upright, and was limping faster than most people could sprint, a scream squealing out of his throat like a train whistle.
Charles didn’t even bother to go for the blurring limbs.
He aimed center mass, and squeezed.
Mr. K
“Side hit, minus twenty.” Mr. K led the target, and winged his flailing arm. “Five for me, right arm.”
Though he didn’t smile often, he felt his lips twist upward.
This was actually a lot of fun.
Luther
Luther had been ai
ming at Porter from the moment the air horn sounded, tracking his trajectory across the back of the range. Already he was halfway to the opposite wall. To be honest, he wasn’t sure of where he was aiming, just started squeezing the trigger until the slide locked back.
Porter suddenly grabbed his side and hit the deck, flopping face-first onto the concrete and leaving a blood streak, screaming all the way.
“My bad!” Luther yelled, “minus a hundred!”
Clay
“That was a scream,” Clay said. “I’d swear on my sweet Mama’s head that was a scream.”
Rather than wait for the others, Clay rushed the door to the gun shop, smacking into it with his shoulder. It was a bad move; the door was reinforced with steel.
Not a problem. Alice can get in.
He stepped back, drawing Alice out of her holster, taking aim at the deadbolt.
Javier
That pendejo cheater, Javier thought, but it made him grin anyway.
And Luther had done him a favor. The moving target was now moving at a much slower pace, crawling across the floor.
Javier took his time, sighting Porter down the barrel of the brand-spanking new Ruger, and then he put a round into his left elbow.
Porter
He’d been shot by a Crosman air rifle when he was fifteen years old, the BB punching into the back of his left leg. It had felt like a bad bee sting, and his mother had dug out the tiny copper ball with a pair of tweezers while he cried.
This was about a million times worse, and—
FUUUUUCCCCK!
Another round struck his left elbow in a searing blast of pain. The bullet, failing to crack bone, had taken a ride under the skin up his humerus and exited the back of his arm. He forced himself up onto his feet, his left foot throbbing, the bullet lodged between his phalanges, and he screamed through the pain and kept crawling as fast as he could manage, until his hands touched the far wall.
Halfway there. I can make it. If I can just get back up on my feet, I can—
Then another bullet blew off the back of his left heel.
Tequila
What Alice started, Tequila finished, exploding off the balls of his feet and driving his massive left shoulder into the door of the gun shop.