“Hold it,” he said firmly. “Don’t move.”
Porter froze.
A pause as they assessed each other.
Then everything fell apart.
Porter reached for the forty-five inside his jacket at the same time Archer and Ray burst through the door, ripping off their masks and shoving guns inside their jackets.
Neither saw Waters until it was too late.
For a guy who had never drawn his gun and whose only experience firing a pistol had been target practice at a gun range, Waters was calm and poised. He slid into a two handed stance and braced the Glock as Porter tried drawing his gun.
Waters squeezed off a shot that hit Porter before he finished pulling his forty-five.
The bullet caught Porter under the chin, spraying a wide arc of blood as the bullet tore through his neck. His hands fell away from the forty-five and he grabbed for his throat, eyes open wide in horror and disbelief. Unable to breathe, there was a moment of panic as the pain seized him and then everything went numb. He was dimly aware he had lost control of his bladder and a warm stream soaked through his pants. His legs turned to jelly – there was nothing he could do and no way to stand.
There were no last thoughts.
No sudden revelations or bright lights.
Porter staggered backwards before twisting and falling, already dead before he hit the concrete.
Behind him Archer dropped the bag and yanked out his own forty-five. Waters saw the gun and fired off more shots in quick succession.
Something tugged at his shoulder and Archer was suddenly aware of a sharp, shooting pain that ripped down his arm as he brought up his gun. In that moment, time slowed and he felt every breath and every move. He stepped over Porter’s body and pulled the trigger again and again.
His first shot hit Waters in the chest, and the next three tore holes across his torso in rapid succession. The guard emptied his clip and fired wildly in every direction as he grabbed for the wall with one hand while trying to shoot with the other. The room spun as Waters staggered backwards, slamming into the wall before tumbling to the ground with his chest on fire. His breathing grew shallow and the room darkened.
The gunfire attracted attention and they heard voices from other parts of the corridor. Ray was sobbing hysterically beside Archer, sucking in breaths of air in huge, uncontrollable gulps and trembling as the life left Porter’s body. The sound of bells and ringing alarms echoed in Archer’s ears. He forced himself to ignore the searing pain in his shoulder. He moved forward a step, put a foot on Waters’ neck that pinned the guard to the floor, and fired a round into the base of his skull.
Ray stood frozen in place, the sobs dying on his lips.
In that instant everything changed.
Archer turned and hurried quickly back to the room, sliding open the door again with the master key. The guard was still unconscious on the floor while the three women were huddled together; straining against the tape to get free. Their eyes were filled with fear and panic, knowing what was coming and pleading for their lives in the silence of the room. Coldly and methodically Archer aimed his forty-five, and without hesitating, fired bullets through the duct tape covering their mouths. Then he turned to the security guard, face down in the corner, and put three slugs in his back before running out of the room.
He snatched his bag and pushed past Ray. “Let’s go!”
Ray sobbed as rivers of blood streamed from Porter’s lifeless body.
Archer grabbed his arm, yanking him forward.
“We can’t leave him,” Ray cried.
“He’s dead,” Archer said. “Ain’t nothing we can do for him now.”
Ray stared at Porter’s body but Archer pulled him forward, and they raced together towards the stairs leading out to the Boardwalk. Nobody stopped them. While workers drifted around the arena, unaware of the carnage or what was happening, Archer and Ray pushed past them and disappeared into the late day sunshine without a backwards glance.
“You didn’t have to shoot them,” Ray cried.
Archer noticed the thirty-eight shaking in Ray’s hand. He tightened the grip on his own gun, keeping his other hand wrapped tightly around the Pontiac’s steering wheel.
“Didn’t have a choice,” he said with a shrug. “Witnesses.”
“Witnesses?”
“Yea, witnesses,” he said. “They could identify us.”
Ray blinked back tears. “We were wearing masks,” he said. “How could they recognize us?”
“Didn’t want to take any chances,” Archer said.
He could feel the pain cutting through muscle and bone like a knife blade, sharp and serrated. He concentrated on the situation with Ray. They were out of time. There were only a few ways this could play out if the stand-off continued and none promised to get them back to their rooms in one piece. Every cop in Atlantic City was hunting for them. They had over one hundred grand in cash in the back seat of the stolen Pontiac as well as six dead bodies back at Boardwalk Hall.
Too much blood on their hands.
“You got to remember it comes down to protecting yourself and eliminating risk,” Archer said. “You take out anything you can’t control.”
“Anybody you leave breathing is somebody you can’t control.”
“Nobody was supposed to die. That’s not how we planned it.”
“Things change,” Archer said.
“Sounds like something Porter would say,” Ray said, shaking his head.
Archer nodded. “You can’t leave loose ends.”
He looked at Ray for a sign of understanding or recognition but Ray was too deep in his own thoughts to respond. It could have been fear or even something more – whatever it was, it wasn’t releasing Ray from its grip. Archer was out of patience and done waiting.
Ray shook his head and shut his eyes, letting the thirty-eight drop slightly.
It was barely noticeable but Archer saw an opportunity. He swallowed a smile as he thought about the hundred grand in the back seat that could be all his.
It was Archer’s last thought. The silence was shattered by Ray’s thirty-eight. Ray’s arm jumped and the explosion jerked Archer’s head backwards against the glass.
Ray opened his eyes and let out a deep breath, numb from the noise filling the car.
A red dot had appeared in the center of Archer’s head where the bullet entered – the back of his skull exploded where it came out. Blood was splattered against the window. Archer’s mouth was open but no sounds came out. His arm fell to his lap and his head sank into the driver’s seat, the forty-five slowly dropping from his grip. Archer stared at Ray but his eyes turned dull and lifeless.
No loose ends, Ray thought, lowering his gun.
Porter would have said the same thing.
BIO:
Kevin Michaels is the author of the novel "Lost Exit", as well as two books in the Fight Card Book series: "Hard Road" and "Can't Miss Contender." His short stories and flash fiction have appeared in a number of publications, magazines, and anthologies, and in 2012 he was nominated for two separate Pushcart Prize awards.
He is everything New Jersey (attitude, edginess, and Bruce Springsteen – but not Bon Jovi). He lives and writes at the Jersey Shore. Website: http://kmwriter.blogspot.com
YOU ONLY DIE ONCE By Rhesa Sealy
There’s something in the air today. The gentle caressing of something dark, Jaxx feels as he props against the tombstone watching the casket slowly sink into the hole. That’s the thing with death, eventually it claims you; there are no exceptions. Popping the collar of his coat, he scans the group wondering once again if any of them really care or if it’s just all an act.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on me,” he says, turning to look at his broker, bodyguard in tow.
She gives him a seductive look before flicking her hand, dismissing her man. Stepping closer, she looks past him to the group. Jaxx looks up to sky, waiting.