A robbery?
Then the nearest raised his gun and fired at Phin from twenty meters away.
Before the shot went off, Phin was diving and rolling into the store, coming up on his feet, sprinting down the grocery aisle. As he ran, he reflexively reached behind him for a pistol he’d forgotten back at the cabin.
It was, in a way, pretty funny. Phin didn’t have a concealed carry permit, or even a firearm owner’s ID, but he always kept a weapon on him when he went out, on the off chance he ran into trouble. And when it finally did happen, when the secret wet dream of every guy with an NRA bumper sticker came true and an armed assailant opened fire in a public place, Phin had been too pissed off and coked up to remember to bring his gun.
Fail.
More shots from behind him, and Phin cut left and almost ran over a confused-looking teen girl wearing too much eye make-up and a stud in each nostril. In her hand was—predictably—eye shadow.
“What’s going on?” Her eyes were wide with obvious fright.
“Robbery. Seven men with guns. You need to hide.”
Phin tried to get around her, but she latched onto his wrist.
“Help me. Please.”
Phin pulled free, but the teenager was right on his heels, following him through the toy aisle. He searched the overhead signs, looking for sporting goods. Someone in the front of the store yelled, “Don’t! Please don—” and was cut off by a gunshot.
Had they killed him?
That didn’t make sense.
During his stretch as a criminal, Phin had robbed a fair number of people. Most of them were drug dealers. For those robberies, Phin had been armed, because his targets had been armed. It was risky, from a life-threatening standpoint, but safe when it came to getting arrested. Those crimes were never reported. There was zero chance a pusher would complain to the cops, demanding they find the man who stole all their smack. But there were a few times when Phin had been desperate enough to rob a bank—something he did via the drive-through window with road flares and a digital clock rigged to look like a dynamite time bomb. He’d never been armed for those crimes. Armed robbery tended to make the police keener to find the suspect. Murder trumped even that. If you wanted a guarantee to be hunted by the authorities forever, killing someone was the way to go.
If this was just a robbery, no thief with half a brain would start shooting people. That was the zenith of stupid.
If this was just a robbery.
But what if it wasn’t?
The assailants all dressed like gangbangers. Phin had been an equal opportunity jacker, and had made enemies of many gangs of every possible affiliation. These were wearing Folk Nation colors.
Were they here for him? Could they have found him and tracked him to Wisconsin?
What if this was a hit?
Movement, ahead and to the left, and then Phin saw a red laser dot glowing on the floor just a meter ahead of him. Phin skidded to a stop and ducked behind a display of Star Wars T-shirts just as a gang member turned down the aisle. Phin got under the metal clothing rack and shoved, hard, upending it onto the man, blanketing him with XL droids and Wookies.
The TD-TD-TD-TD-TD! of submachine gunfire shredded the shirts, rounds pinging into the ceiling, and Phin backpedaled, the girl grabbing onto his belt and getting tugged along like a caboose.
I need a weapon.
Phin’s everyday carry—other than the 1911 he’d left at the cabin—consisted of an Emerson Kershaw folding knife with a three-and-a-half inch tanto blade, an Olight flash that put out twelve hundred lumens, a Zippo, a tactical pen with a glass breaker and hidden handcuff key, and a Bowen belt knife. All useful items with varied self-defense applications. But they meant getting up close. Pointy hand-to-hand weapons weren’t too helpful against Scorpion submachine guns that could fire nine hundred rounds per minute.
But this was a Walmart in Wisconsin. There was a good likelihood it carried ranged firearms. A rifle or shotgun would make things a little more even. Phin scanned the overhead signs, searching for the Sporting Goods aisle.
That’s when the girl he was lugging along tripped.
She didn’t let go of his belt and almost brought him down, falling to her knees.
Then she began to bawl.
Loudly.
Phin took a quick three-sixty look around, spotted a dressing room in the middle of the store. Bad hiding place; it was too obvious, only had one entry point, and provided zero cover. But next to it, attached to a column, was something useful.
He helped the girl up and pulled her to the dressing room area, then released her wrist and unbuckled the fire extinguisher from the column. Phin pulled the pin, yanked the scrunchie from her ponytail, and quickly sprayed CO2 around them. Big white clouds billowed up to shoulder height, and he led the teen toward the back of the store, covering their movements with clouds of gas. Then he stretched the hair fastener around the handle of the extinguisher to keep it squeezed, and threw it as far as he could.
In the Electronics section, Phin saw an employee cowering behind the register. An older woman, chubby, her hands covering her head as if the roof was coming down.
“Does this store sell rifles?” Phin whispered.
She didn’t move, and her eyes had a faraway look.
More shooting, from where he’d thrown the fire extinguisher. At least two guns, possibly three. He couldn’t see them, but they weren’t far.
He glanced around, hoping to spot a fire exit, and his eyes settled on an oversized cardboard Blu-ray display of Matt Dillon, from some show called Wayward Pines. Phin ushered the teenager behind the counter, next to the employee, and covered them with the cardboard, putting it over their heads like a lean-to. It muffled the girl’s sobbing a little, but anyone walking by would hear it and discover them.
Matt Dillon couldn’t save those people. Phin couldn’t, either. But they weren’t his responsibility.
“Sporting goods is that way,” the employee said, poking her hand out from under the cardboard and pointing. Then she said, “Please. Save us.”
He tried the phone on the counter. Didn’t hear a dial tone.
“How do I get an outside line?”
“It’s broken.”
“Stay hidden. Keep quiet. Maybe they won’t find you.”
That was all Phin had to offer.
Then he ran, hard, along the back aisle, past DVDs and video games and TVs and camping gear and fishing poles, and reached his destination moments later. The gun case. Phin wasted a few seconds looking at the long arms, then remembered that guns didn’t kill people. Bullets did. So he searched for ammunition, figuring he’d pick the weapon based on the rounds stocked.
All he saw were boxes of .22lr.
In Phin’s mind, twenty-two long range was plinking ammo; good to practice with because it was small enough to shoot for extended periods without hand fatigue or ringing eardrums, and cheaper than dirt. While one of the most popular calibers, the cartridges were also one of the tiniest, about the length of four Tic-Tacs, and only slightly wider. He’d never used it for defense. When Phin bought .45 ACP ammo, twenty-five rounds of Hornady cost about $25. The fifty round box of .22lr Remington Thunderbolts he stared at was marked $2.79.
He wasted ten precious seconds searching for something larger, failed, and reached for the Thunderbolts, four boxes fitting easily into his front pocket. Then he went back to the rifle case and tried to determine which could hold the most bullets. Phin’s experience with .22 long arms was limited, but he knew the four basic types of action. Pump action, like a shotgun. Lever action, like Chuck Connors used on the old TV show The Rifleman. Bolt action, the preference of snipers. And semi-automatic, which spring-fed the next cartridge into the chamber without having to do anything manually.
Phin’s eyes settled on a Marlin 795 semi-auto rifle with a ten round magazine. He broke the glass with the pointed handle of his tactical pen, grabbed the firearm, and jogged over to another column to relieve it of its fire ext
inguisher. After dousing the sporting goods area with a white cloud of CO2, he hunkered down next to some plastic sleds and began to load the magazine. The rifle was small and light, feeling like a child’s toy in his hands. He slapped the full mag in, pulled the bolt to load the first round, and squinted into the fog, looking for bad guys.
The fog made them easy to find.
Phin had never understood the point of laser sights on a weapon. If your aim was lousy, you should practice until it wasn’t, not rely on a dot. Lasers alerted your target, and also gave away your position. Phin only needed to follow the long red lines cutting through the carbon dioxide, which might as well have been arrows pointing toward his attackers. He raised the rifle, stock tight against his shoulder, aiming at the nearest. Then he paused.
Phin had spent the last two years raising a child, and that tended to soften the edges of even the hardest man. Bringing a life into the world, knowing all that went into doing so, made ending a life harder. Killing wasn’t ever easy. Even in a kill-or-be-killed scenario. Phin had been avoiding violence for so long, he wasn’t sure he still had it in him.
The gangbanger was about fifty meters away. Straight line of sight.
Phin thought about Samantha.
He wanted to see her again.
He needed to see her again.
He fired twice.
The Marlin had almost no recoil, and the gunshots were about as loud as hand claps. Phin hadn’t been able to clearly see his target, but his guess where the man’s head was at proved correct when the guy dropped his gun and it stayed dropped.
One down, at least five to go.
Phin watched the red beams, but they were choppy and kept disappearing. Merchandise was in the way. He stayed low and moved to another, larger aisle, getting on one knee and waiting for the next target to round the corner. But instead of proceeding, the guy backtracked, taking off in a jog. Phin took a millisecond before deciding to pursue, running with his head down, heading for the long lane and a straight shot. He fell to his knees, sliding across the tile floor, smoothly aligning the sights and double-tapping at the retreating figure.
This one didn’t go down. Instead, he turned and emptied his magazine in Phin’s direction. His aim was off, but he exchanged magazines within a few seconds, and Phin stared down the metal sights of the Marlin long enough to see he was wearing a flak jacket.
A high powered rifle, with the right ammo, could possibly penetrate body armor.
A .22 rifle could not.
Phin adjusted his aim, concentrating on keeping the gun steady, noticing in an almost detached way as his opponent’s laser sight streaked up the floor and raced toward him. Just as the red dot reached Phin’s feet, Phin exhaled and squeezed the trigger.
For a tiny little bullet, the .22lr did a good job of tearing out the man’s throat.
Society now had one less problem to deal with. Phin still had four.
He stood, searching for more red lights, and heard screams. Two female screams, coming from the electronics department.
Phin reminded himself they weren’t his responsibility. Jack and Samantha were. He owed those strangers nothing, and owed his family everything. Helping them was risky, and selfish.
“Please don’t hurt me!”
A slapping sound.
A wail of pain.
Phin pulled his attention away from their problems and stared down the aisle. It was a forty meter sprint to the front doors. One gangbanger was obviously back in Electronics. One was in the grocery aisle on the other side of the store. Phin didn’t see the remaining two. But he liked his chances at getting away.
I’m not a hero.
I can easily justify saving my own neck.
I’ve done some bad things, and I can still live with myself.
If those women die, they die. It isn’t on my hands.
I have my family to think of.
He ran for the exit. Hit the door at a full sprint, bouncing through, then the second door and he was in the parking lot, heading for the road. He focused on an image in his mind, an idealized thought of Jack holding Sam, both smiling, urging him to come home to them. The relief he felt getting out of that Walmart was like escaping captivity, and the cool breeze that stung Phin’s cheeks was magical.
Then the night spit rapid-fire bullets at him, chewing up the parking lot asphalt to his left. It was coming from behind. Phin dove right, bringing the gun to his chest, skinning the leather off his jacket shoulder, then quickly crawling behind a parked Honda for cover. He chanced a look around the bumper, saw the banger alongside the store, sliding another magazine into his machine gun.
They’d had a seventh man covering the exit. Phin had been stupid; so eager to get away that he hadn’t used his head, and the mistake had almost killed him.
He raised the rifle, fired twice, missed both times. The wind was effecting his aim.
More shots, peppering the Honda. Phin hid behind the tire, reloading, considering his options. The man shooting at him didn’t look older than twenty. He’d probably never been in a firefight. None of these guys had, hence the need for laser sights. The drive-by/spray-n-pray school of murder banked on the fact that if enough lead was thrown at a target, a few shots would hit home. That worked in the hood against unarmed victims. It didn’t work when your opponents also had guns. This moron still hadn’t gone for cover, probably thinking his bulletproof vest made him invincible.
Phin stood, sighted left to adjust for the wind, and fired one round per second, using the brick dust pinging off the wall behind the target to help him zero in. On shot number seven, Phin hit the shooter in the nose, and he dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
Should have gone for cover.
Phin took off again, exiting the parking lot and heading for the road, letting adrenaline power his footfalls.
Being alive, getting away, felt good. Phin knew about the euphoria associated with surviving a near death experience, because he’d lived through a few horrible things. Things that still gave him nightmares. Things that made him even more determined to reunite with his family.
Phin didn’t think about the people he’d left behind.
Until he did.
The teenaged girl wearing too much make-up to look older.
The chubby cashier, who was probably grateful Walmart came to town and employed her.
Not my responsibility.
Phin was a survivor. His risk-taking days ended when his cancer went into remission. The surest path to getting through a crisis was to get away from it. As far away as possible. Cemeteries were full of heroes.
I am not a hero.
Jack is the hero of the family.
Jack is the one who puts herself in harm’s way to help others.
I am not Jack.
I’m no different than the three men I’ve just killed.
Phin stopped.
Because that was a lie. He was different than the men he’d killed. He had to be. Jack wouldn’t have loved him if he wasn’t.
Phin didn’t lack empathy. He was using his questionable moral compass as an excuse for the real reason he didn’t want to try and save those people.
I’m afraid.
Phin had never been truly afraid before. He’d stared down stone cold killers. He’d spat in cancer’s face. He’d engaged in behavior that any reasonable person would run from, and hadn’t even blinked.
But his life didn’t belong to only him. Not anymore. He was part of something bigger.
He was part of a family.
And that was positively terrifying and absolutely amazing.
What makes life worth living is the wonderful fact that we have so much to lose.
Phin wanted to be the man that his wife and daughter deserved.
And that man would never run from people who needed help.
That man would help them.
Phin turned around and stared at the Walmart. The fear was still there, a fist squeezing his stomach.
He
told the fear to fuck off. He had people to save.
Phin sprinted to the kid he’d killed, trading the Marlin for a Scorpion submachine gun and two full magazines, and then rushed back inside the store.
A shooter, next to the checkout lanes, raised his weapon.
He was quick.
Phin was quicker. His new Scorpion had select-fire for semi-auto and full auto, with no in-between option for a three round burst like an M-16. So Phin went full, lining up the dot rather than steadying the iron sights, the gun bucking in his hand like a pissed off stray cat, erasing the kid’s head in a poof of blood and bone faster than it took his heart to lub-dub one last time.
Phin dropped the empty mag, slammed home a fresh one, recharged the bolt knobs by giving them a slight tug, and wondered if he should reconsider his opinion on laser sights. He ran to the man he’d killed and relieved him of three more mags and his bloody flak jacket. Phin shrugged out of his leather coat, Velcroed the vest into place, then ran toward the Electronics section through the dissipating carbon dioxide gas, wary of red beams. When he got to the counter where the women had been hiding, the Matt Dillon standup was face-down on the floor, and they were gone.
On the floor was a small smear of blood.
Phin held his breath, trying to hear his surroundings above his thumping heart.
There. Somewhere behind him. A girl crying.
He followed the sound, scanning for baddies. There had been six inside, one outside, which left three more.
Phin didn’t notice the shooter until he’d been shot six times in the back.
In one of his unluckier moments in life, Phin had been beaten with a baseball bat. It hurt. A lot.
Getting shot while wearing a vest hurt almost as much.
Phin fell onto his face, the wind punched out of him, in so much pain he couldn’t tell if the Kevlar had stopped the rounds or not. Agony be damned, he flipped over onto his back, unable to scream in pain because his lungs were empty, and raised his Scorpion to face his shooter, who was rushing his way.
Rum Runner - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 9) Page 9