cold

They busted in with large guns blazing. There wasn’t anytime to think. It was reaction only.

“Blam!” one shot rang out. A groan. A scream. Then all hell broke loose.

Bullets started flying throughout the apartment. It used to be a warehouse, so it was just one big room. Glass shattered. Pillows exploded. It was chaos.

But it was also fun.

I pushed a new clip into my gun. Took aim and shot. Two more fell. By the shots, I figured there were three more out there. I was behind the big-ass kitchen table. Made out of some kind of stone that kept the bullets from reaching their target. My heart was beating fast. But not that fast. I took a moment to think about that. I wasn’t nervous, just on edge.

I saw her in the reflection of a pan hanging from the ceiling. She was crying. And bloody. I had to do something. Fast. Or she was going to die.

I sprung from my hiding place. No guns blazing like out of some John Woo movie. Instead, with a steady eye into the darkness. I knew one was in the right corner. I heard some whimpering, obviously he’d been hit somewhere low. Most likely the dick. He wasn’t going to do anything. The other two were together. Cursing the fact they fucked all this up. My goal was to get within 10 feet and just spray them. They didn’t let me.

Both of them jumped out, firing. Much like the Arquette in “Pulp Fiction” they missed everything. I simply shot four times -- two into each of them -- and they fell. Dead.

I went up to the whimpering guy. He was pale. Dying for sure. He was crying. He didn’t have a gun anymore. I looked at him. “Who sent you?” I asked. He didn’t answer. I shot him in the shoulder. “Who sent you?”

“Freedie,” he stuttered out. “Free, Free, Freedie, man. He sent us.”

“Figures,” I said, lowering the gun to his face. I didn’t shoot. I kicked. Out cold. He’ll be dead before he wakes up. Bled out via the hole where his dick used to be. My gun couldn’t have done that. One of his buddies did it.

I scurried over to her. She was shivering. I checked for any wounds. There weren’t any. I couldn’t figure out why she was covered in blood. Then I saw it. Her dog, Chevon, had no head. She must’ve been holding him. Yuck. Poor dog.

Scooping her into my arms, I went to the bathroom. Turned on the shower. Since I’m in the middle of nowhere in the Louisiana swamps, no cops are going to come calling. If anyone heard the ruckus, they went the other way. But, this place is compromised. I’ve got to leave. Fast. These guys would have needed to call in. Tell Freedie I was dead. They weren’t making that call now. So, a new batch would be coming. Maybe even that fat bastard himself. The water was warm now, I took her clothes off. She just sort of looked at me. She was scared, for sure. And now the man she’d been with for two years just killed six guys. There’s no explaining that. But, she’s in preservation mode now. Shock. She won’t protest.

I put her in the shower. “Get clean, baby,” I say. She just stands there. Watching the dog’s blood and pieces of fur trickle down the drain. I hand her a bar of soap. “Now!” She starts to scrub.

I go to my room. Change my clothes. Throw some in a bag. The safe is in there. I open it. It’s never locked. I take a few stacks of bills. Road money.

A phone rings. It’s not mine. Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz. One of these idiots had his phone on. Amateurs.

I find it. One missed call. Freedie. He’ll call one more time. Then he’ll be on the way. The room smells of smoke and piss. I’m sure every one of these guys has soiled himself in death. Maybe even in life. I do have a reputation.

I look at the wall. I see a picture. It’s from 15 years ago. Me and my ex. Her red hair glistening in the sun. She left me 5 years ago today. That’s certainly not a coincidence.

She stumbles out of the bathroom. Still naked. God damn she’s beautiful. I instantly wish I’d never met her. She’s got Cajun in her, but her family moved out years ago. She came back to help clean up after the BP spill. Met me while bartending in a local dive. I think she fell in love the second night we went out. I never did. And it hurt me to think so. She deserved better than some guy still in love with the past. Still in love with a woman who left for a job. Left for herself. Left to be alone. Leaving me alone.

“Hey,” she said. It startled me a little. “You’re not taking her picture?”

I grabbed it off the wall. She frowned. I hoped she’d not hate me. But after this, there’s no chance.

“Put on some clothes, we’ve got to get the fuck out of here.”

“Who were these guys?”

“If I tell you, they’ll kill you.”

“Sounds like I’m fucked either way.”

Fucked. So magical the way she says that. I think that’s why I let her into my life. The way she said fucked. I still remember the first time I heard it. The Eagles’ “Desperado” was just ending on the jukebox. I said “fuck the Eagles, man.” And she said “consider yourself fucked,” and then played “Hotel California” with a smile. She bought me an Abita and gave me a smile. I gave her nothing in return. Yet she stuck around.

We got into my car, a beat up old 1991 Toyota Celica with a rusted moon roof. She always laughed at my car. I told her it was the best damn car in the world.

Thankfully, Freedie didn’t know of my love for Celica’s of the 1991 vintage. He and his boys wouldn’t think twice if we passed him by on the road in one. I stared the engine. It purred. I put on Lucero’s “That Much Further West” and pointed her directly in that direction.

The sun was coming up. It felt cold. I looked at her. She was going to sleep. Good. It’s going to be a long drive.