Authors: Brandon Massey

Twisted Tales (30 page)

BOOK: Twisted Tales

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The gunfire was deafening in the house.

The shotgun’s buckshot plowed into the door frame, wood splinters flying—and part of the buckshot spray ripped into his shoulder. He screamed and staggered sideways, knocking against a counter. He didn’t feel any pain yet, but he knew it was coming, an express train of agony on the way.

But he noted with satisfaction that he’d drilled the thug between the eyes. Doo Rag lay sprawled on his back in the hallway, lips parted in an unfinished prayer. Dead.

He felt nothing—no sorrow or pity. Although it wasn’t the first time that he’d killed a man, each time he did it, he felt less for his victim, and in his moments of introspection, that bothered him, made him wonder if he’d lost his humanity.

But he didn’t have time to think about that right now. There were, by the sounds of it, at least two more men in the house. One of them poked his head into view at the end of the hall. Baldie.

He fired the Glock at Baldie, and the thug jumped out of sight. He’d missed him.

Pain gnawed deep into his shoulder. Dark blood dampened his shirt. Dizziness swam through him, and he gritted his teeth, determined to stay alert.

But he was fading fast. His legs buckled, gave way. He spilled onto the linoleum tile like a drunken uncle. His hand hooked around the table leg, and he pulled it, fuzzily thinking he could use the table as a shield. The table crashed to the floor, hot food and lemonade spattering around him.

He hauled the table in front of him, propped his back against the row of cabinets, and positioned the Glock atop the edge of the table, to steady his aim.

His vision was beginning to get blurry. The pain intensified; it felt as if someone had packed his shoulder with kindling and set it aflame.

Ahead of him, the hallway was dark, a tunnel of death. But he knew they were out there. He felt their eyes on him.

Gotta hold on.

A door creaked open. Mama rushed out of the basement, to his side. Her eyes were red from crying.

“Get away,” he said, but his voice came out as only a hoarse whisper.

“Not letting my baby die,” Mama said. Her eyes were steel. She wrapped her arm around his waist and started to drag him across the floor, toward the basement door.

Gunfire rang out.

Warm blood sprayed against his face. It wasn’t his blood.

Mama.

“
No!” he cried.

She slumped against him, her body as limp and heavy as a sandbag. He tried to hold her against him with his good arm, but he was too weak. She slid out of his grasp and thudded to the floor. Blood pooled around her lips, and for an absurd moment, it looked as if she was okay, as if she’d merely fallen asleep wearing too much red lipstick.

He wanted to believe that she was only asleep. The urge to deny what had happened to her was nearly overwhelming.

He crawled to Mama, touched her chest. It was still; she wasn’t breathing.

She was gone.

Grief squeezed his heart like an iron fist.

The photo of Mama and his father, happy during their brief affair, stood nearby, mocking him with the dream of what could have been.

He reached out with his good arm and snagged the picture in his quivering fingers. He fixed his gaze on the man, his father.

This is your fault, and I’m going to make you pay.

If his father had done right by them, they never would have been here. They wouldn’t have been living here, he wouldn’t have grown up in and out of trouble, and Mama never would have led such a hard life. None of this would have ever happened to them.

No matter what, I’m going to get you for this.

A booted foot materialized from out of nowhere and caught him under the chin. He flipped backward against the tile, blinked groggily.

Two faces swam into view above him, like twin moons: Dreads and Baldie. They were grinning.

“Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it motherfucka?” Dreads asked.

He tried to raise his hand and fire the Glock, and discovered that he couldn’t move his arm. He no longer had the gun, anyway. He’d dropped it somewhere.

But Dreads still had his gun.

Dreads aimed the weapon at his head and pulled the trigger.

He spiraled into darkness, his promise of vengeance following him into oblivion.

No matter what, I’m going to get you ...

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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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ISBN: 978-0-7582-8172-2