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A blog for poetry, prose, and pop culture.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Flash Fiction: Noir Story

Chapter 29

I desperately tried to draw the Beretta up in time, but the guy with the semi was to fast. I gritted my teeth, waiting for the spray of bullets to come. Just as he layed the barrel down, Mike popped up from behind the counter, his face a mask of blood, and fired his shotgun. The buckshot caught the guy full and he fell to the side, the automatic fire going wide. I bounded forward, firing the Beretta at another guy who was crawling towards his gun. With him down, I took count of Sixx's boys, making sure that we had all of them. Satisfied, I slipped and fresh clip in the Beretta and made my way towards Mike.

He was cut up pretty bad from the glass shards of the mirror, including a viciously deep one across his scalp. He had a bullet lodged in his shoulder and his leg. He slipped free his walkie talkie and radioed for backup. It was a cluster fuck, but if I wanted to get at Sixx, I needed to act fast. He told me he's cover me and motioned for me to check out Sixx's office. I nodded and made my way over to the door. My left arm burned and blood was falling freely down from my shoulder. I'd also had another round graze my scalp. This job certainly was earning me my hazard pay.

I kicked the door down and ducked back as the doorway erupted in a spray of automatic fire. The gun chattered as the doorway was peppered with bullets and I waited for the first empty click of the gun. At the sound I shoved myself around the corner, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, and thumbed the hammer back on the gun, feeling the pistol buck as each bullet roared free. I wasn't really aiming at anything in particular, but I knew the shooter had to be near the doorway based on the bullet fire. I dove into the room and kept firing, getting lucky as one of the rounds caught the shooter in the arm. I hit the ground and came up in a roll that sent a screech of protest up one side of my arm and down the other, but I muscled through and came up by the shooter. I lashed out with my gun hand, catching the shooter in the face with the butt of the pistol and I crashed it against his skull a few times for good measure. He dropped, clutching his face and I kicked the sub machine gun away and brought my gun back up.

Johnny Sixx sat at his desk, hands on the table. He wore an all black suit and his hair was slicked back. His desk was mostly free, though a loaded .45 sat beside a silver tray with several lines of coke drawn on it. I kept the gun aimed at him and he smiled, a kind of crocodile smile that someone gets when they think they still know all the angles. Time to change that perception. I fired the Beretta, catching him in the meat of his shoulder. He flew off the chair and hit the floor. Sweeping the platter of coke of the desk, I hopped up and fired to more rounds into each of his legs. Sixx tried to crawl, tears streaming down his face. I calmly plugged in my last clip and chambered in another round. I hopped down off the desk and placed the cold barrel of the gun against Sixx's balls. I made sure he heard the hammer being cocked, then I told him he was going to answer a few questions. The answers I learned, however, I wasn't gonna like.

End of Line.

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