Page 9 of Vile Bastards
It collapses, and we go down with it, wrestling in the debris, broken shards of wood stabbing into my side, pieces of glass cutting my left hand as I use it to brace myself against the floor. My right arm is completely useless, hanging by my side and bleeding everywhere.
The Ruger’s been lost in the melee, but that’s okay: I don’t need it.
I pick up a large shard of glass, clutching it in my palm, heedless of the way it makes me bleed. Turning, I stab it into Shipman’s body as hard as I can. Over and over. I’m stabbing him with the glass, and he’s turning to grapple with me.
Everything is slick with blood as we fight for control of the shard, bodies crashing into yet more furniture. An entire bookcase is knocked over, and it falls—luckily, blessedly—right on top of Shipman.
The man curls into a fetal position as books cascade over him, and the shelf follows shortly after, briefly trapping him. I drop the bloodied glass and scramble around, searching for either his gun or mine.
Already, he’s shoving the bookcase aside with a grunt, eyes blazing as they lock on me. I’m scrambling to my feet, still searching the floor frantically for the guns. I don’t see either of them and quickly abandon the idea, kicking out and aiming for Shipman’s face. He snatches my leg by the ankle, but as he pulls me down, and I hit the ground with my back, I’m already bringing my other foot up.
I’m able to nail him in the mouth as he lets out a frustrated snarl. Shipman shoves my legs aside and rises to his feet with a terrifying grace. I’m still struggling to push myself up with that single, bloodied hand when he reaches to the holster on his waist for a second gun.
“Boo.” Bohnes appears in the doorway to the foyer, staggering slightly but holding the Ruger in his hand. He fires at Shipman, hitting him in the shoulder and spattering the wall with yet more blood. The man ducks and rolls, shoving up to his feet and sprinting down the hallway toward the back door.
I stand to go after him, slipping in the blood on the floor as Bohnes lurches over to me, panting heavily. He has huge purple circles under his eyes, and he’s shaking like one of those homeless men in the tent cities, the ones my father uses as excuses for his developments.
“We are in the midst of a housing crisis!” he shouts to his constituents, putting his arm around one of those same said tent city men. “And that’s why we need to fight back against those who would say, ‘Not in my backyard.’ I’m backing the city council’s decision to approve four new condominium units on the river because housing … it’s a human right.” My father lifts his entwined hand with the homeless man’s. “I say, ‘Yes, yes in my backyard!’”
As if condos beginning at half a million dollars and up are for the tent city man.
Two days later, the guy was found dead in a ditch.
Bohnes grabs my right arm, and I cry out in pain as he jerks on it.
“You were spacing out,” he hisses at me, and I look down at my right arm to see that I’m bleeding everywhere. It’s the same arm that Aspen was shot in, that he died from, that he …
I look up to meet Bohnes’ ice-blue eyes.
Neither of us is in any shape to chase after Shipman; I’m smart enough to know that.
Scarlett. That’s what’s important here, and I don’t know where she is.
“My shoulder is dislocated,” I start as Bohnes sets the gun aside and grabs my arm. He puts one foot on my side to brace himself before I realize what he’s doing. I open my mouth to protest as he tugs, and agony slices my brain in half. I see stars as Bohnes releases me, stumbling and slamming into the wall.
I’m breathing hard and shaking; the sensation has returned to my arm, and it’s nothing if not pure torture. I’ve been shot. Not like Aspen, not a kill shot. But the pain is immense, rattling my brain as I narrow my eyes on Bohnes.
“I saved you,” I accuse, and he lets a terrible smile stretch over his bloodied lips.
“Oh, my hero.” Bohnes picks up the gun again, studying it for a moment before lifting his gaze to mine. I look at the pistol and then up at him. He’s considering killing me, just the way I did in regard to him.
“Where’s Scarlett?” I ask, because at the very least, I should make sure he knows where she is before he blows my brains out.
“What do you mean, ‘Where’s Scarlett?’” he snarls back at me, his pale face growing paler. “She’s supposed to be at the track with Widow.”
