by Angie West
***
Damn, how deep is the thing buried? I scowled at the dirt while I continued to dig—and pray. I could see the shadows of two men inside my kitchen.
Finally! Oh, finally! I nearly shouted in relief as the shovel struck something solid. I didn’t shout, of course, because that would have been a very bad idea, all things considered. I barely stopped myself from simply tossing the shovel down. Instead, I lowered it carefully onto the ground, out of sight from the window, and knelt down with the trowel. The bout of nerves was easing a little now that I wasn’t standing up ramming a shovel into the dirt with nothing but an old oak tree for protection. The pepper spray I’d tucked into my pocket earlier now seemed puny, inadequate. Why hadn’t I thought to bring an actual weapon? I bit my tongue, hoping it wouldn’t come to that. If it did…well, there was always the shovel.
I used the trowel to uncover the box and dug out the sides a bit more to grab the metal lock box. Lock box? Shit. Well, I would deal with that later…break it open if I had to. I picked up the shovel and the box, leaving the trowel lying on the ground. I didn’t need it and couldn’t get a good grip on it anyway with the box tucked under my arm.
“Going somewhere?”
I didn’t turn around, not right away at least. I had already figured it would take one heck of a lucky streak to get in and out with my house under surveillance. I’m not that lucky. Funny thing though…after the first few seconds of not being able to breathe, the nerves were gone. I turned around and stared down the man who stood three feet from me in the yard. His eyes widened a bit in what I took to be recognition.
“You’re the doctor?”
Doctor? Well, that was a first. Technically I was, but personally, I still thought of doctors as the people I went to on the rare occasion that I was sick.
“I asked you a question.”
“I live here. Who the hell are you?” The last part came out more like a squeak than a command. Hey, the guy was big, okay?
“You need to come with me.”
Right. I saw the way his left hand moved a little closer to his pocket and didn’t think. I moved as fast as I could and prayed it would be good enough. I dropped the box, put both hands on the shovel and swung hard. The first hit flung his gun against the shed across the yard. I didn’t breathe or look at him after that, I just struck out with the shovel again, blind fear putting my full weight behind the swing. I connected with something solid and watched as he dropped to the ground in a heap at my feet.
Dropping the shovel from limp fingers, I tried to catch my breath as I stared down at him. I was pretty sure he was out cold, but still I side stepped a bit and tried not to scream as the screen door opened again. I thought quickly, which was amazing considering my first instinct was to drop to the ground and yell ‘don’t shoot.’
I dove to the other side of the yard and dropped to my knees. My hands scraped at the ground in a frantic search for the gun. The effort was made twice as hard since I seemed to be having trouble breathing all of a sudden.
“You! Stop!”
Damn! Something brushed my ankle though…something cold. The gun? I turned slowly, lowering myself completely to the ground. The object was now inches from my head, and I could see that it was, indeed, the gun. Thank you, God. I closed my eyes and shoved away everything else but the task at hand. Stay calm, I ordered myself. Steady.
“Don’t shoot!” I yelled to the man I didn’t dare look at. Mostly I didn’t want to see that he was closing in on me, though I was fairly certain he wasn’t. I thought, hoped, that he was still on the other side of the yard, by the door. Then again, his friend had been terrifyingly quiet in his approach. But somehow, knowing he could be walking toward me at any minute made me want to freeze and never move again. His voice sounded like he ate glass.
“Get up slowly, hands where I can see them,” he ordered with deadly calm.
“Okay, I’m getting up now. My leg, it hurts. Please, I need help…not sure if I can make it.” I tried to put some tears in my voice. Not that it was difficult, I thought in disgust. Steady, I reminded myself again. I did glance up at the man then. I guess he wasn’t all that big. Tall, yes, and muscular from what I could see in the dark. The gun he was holding made him look several feet taller.
“I can’t stand on my own. He hurt my leg.” I turned pleading eyes to the gunman and forced my hand to remain still and in place. Then it happened…my golden opportunity, or at least one that I quickly figured was as good as I was likely to get. He relaxed ever so slightly, his gun hand shifting over and down a fraction. I moved then, bringing the gun up and firing in one fluid motion. I had only fired a gun twice before, and both times had been more than eight years prior.
Maybe I was lucky after all. The shot he fired at me before he went down in the grass was pitifully off the mark, slamming instead into the shed directly behind me. I struggled clumsily to my feet from a half crouch and peered over at him. He was lying on the ground and very still. I couldn’t tell where I had hit him; it was too dark to see that much. Yet from my vantage point I could see his gun was still cradled loosely in his hand. It never occurred to me to disarm him. I raced to the oak tree, jumped over the first man on the ground, grabbed the box and ran.