“Where you going, Pop?” The man aiming the gun was dressed head-to-toe in black. He wore a black mask made of some kind of form-fitting material that covered everything, nose mouth, even his eyes. He reminded Gideon of a shadow, a deadly shadow. A malevolent haint come to exact other-worldly vengeance on a man long overdue.
“Raise those hands high. Keep that scattergun aimed toward the ceiling,” the gunman commanded. He kept the rifle trained on Gideon while a comrade moved up and disarmed the old man. Behind him, he heard other men storm through the front. From what he could hear, there were at least two, maybe three. Rayford gave up without a struggle.
“I wanna see some badges!” Gideon demanded. “Where’s your warrant?” He was beginning to sense these guys weren’t cops. Cops yelled and cussed a lot more for shock effect and usually had some form of identification on their uniform. But if these guys weren’t cops, who were they? And what did they want?
“Turn around and get your decrepit ass back inside,” was all the man would say, as he prodded Tuttle with his rifle barrel. “Somebody’s here to see you.”
As if on cue, an unmasked man walked through the front door. Even drunk, Gideon could tell he was looking at a man who would kill without hesitation and without a second thought. Gideon wondered if he’d been commanded to kill the Tuttles. The list of people who wanted to see his clan dead was long. But who would go to this extreme? This was obviously a high dollar outfit. Surely, decent hit men could be found for a lot cheaper around town.
“Mr. Tuttle,” the man gave him a friendly smile. “Going somewhere?”
“Gotta lotta guns to take down an old man and a cripple,” Gideon sneered.
“I don’t believe in leaving things to chance,” Frost shrugged. “Outgunning and outnumbering your adversary goes a long way toward achieving that.”
“Who the fuck is ya and whaddaya want with us?” Gideon was wishing he had another jar of shine. If he was going to take a bullet to the head, the drunker he was, the less anxiety he’d have about it.
“Name’s not important. What’s important is what you and your idiot son here tell me in the next few minutes.”
“About what?” Rayford spoke up. “We ain’t done nuthin’!”
Frost looked to one of his masked men and laughed. “It speaks!” Turning back to Rayford, he eyed the man’s wounds curiously. “What happened to you, boy?” he asked as he walked over to the sofa and stood over him.
“He was fingering some nasty pussy!” Gideon interrupted. “What’s it to ya?”
“Is that so?” Frost looked amused. He gave a barely discernable nod to the man holding the rifle on Gideon. Before the old man even knew what had happened, the man flipped the gun around and drove the stock into Tuttle’s belly. Air expelled from his lungs in a painful whoosh! as his diaphragm was forced upwards violently. He grabbed his gut and collapsed to his knees, doubling over in agony, his mouth agape as he desperately tried to refill his lungs.
“Paw!” Rayford attempted to stand, but he froze in mid-air when Frost whipped out his pistol and drove the barrel into his forehead.
“Back down on the couch, gimp,” Frost instructed, and Rayford meekly complied, the barrel of the gun never losing contact with his skull. “While your old man catches his breath, you might wanna take this time to answer my question. Y’see, my daddy always told me, ‘Son, never draw down on a man unless you’re prepared to pull the trigger.’ What do you think, Rayford, old buddy?” He pressed the activation button, and the sickening sound of the gun powering up in Rayford’s face was almost deafening. “You think I’ll pull the trigger?”
“Some old spacer shot my hand off down at the Blackwater last night!” Rayford couldn’t get the words blurted out fast enough. The barrel of the pistol seemed to be drilling into his head. He could almost feel the tension of Frost’s finger on the trigger.
“And why … pray tell … would he shoot your hand off?”
Rayford hesitated, glancing toward his father, who shot him a murderous look as he struggled back to his feet.
“You’re talking to me … look at me, not him.” Frost’s voice was low and dangerous. “And you’re trying my patience.”
“We’d took somethin’,” he replied, his voice now panicky with fear. “And we were jest tryin’ to have a li’l fun …”
“I need you to cut to the chase,” Frost yawned. “Quickly, please.” He removed the gun from Rayford’s forehead and aimed at his father’s gray head. “Or you can watch your old man die before I kill you. It will give you an idea of how excruciating your own death will be.”
“Tell ‘em to go fuck ’emselves, boy!” Gideon wheezed out finally able to speak again. The liquor made him bold and defiant. He was defiant all the way up to the point Frost shot his right ear off. The old man screamed in rage and pain, like a cat being mutilated, as he put his hand to the bloody hole in the side of his head.
“Noooo!” Rayford screamed in terror as Frost turned the gun back toward him. “Please!” he begged as sobs of fear began to rack him. He’d had all he could stand. He’d lost all the body parts he could spare for the week.
“Talk fast, Rayford,” Frost’s tone was one of impatience. The next round makes you equal with your putrid father.”
“Ok! Ok! Enough!” the son screamed in desperation. “We hijacked some furry li’l critter gal out of the back of some
