I lived in a shanty town that the cops barely gave two shits about.
Oh,and yeah…
Snitches get stitches. (And wind up in ditches)
The chain on the door pulled across when the door opened. The man on the other side said averybad word. If I had a mother, I might be offended.
Wood splintered, the chain ripped clean off the frame, and the door crashed in with a boom. My instinct was to duck and cover my face, but who had time? Since the only door was being blocked, I ran toward the window.
A gun popped, and this time I hit my knees, one of the sharp coils from the sofa stabbing through my jeans and into flesh. I bit down on my lip as tears rushed to my eyes and another bullet embedded itself into the sofa.
That rage I’d been feeling before? It came back times ten. Escape suddenly forgotten, I shot up with a roar, snatching a fork as I moved and launched it at the man shooting at me.
It hit him in the face and bounced off. An incredulous look crossed his face. “I have a gun, and you fight back with a fork?” he said, his voice slightly accented.
I picked up the old TV tray I’d been using as a side table and swung it around, whipping it in his direction. He cursed and batted it away, and I dove for the broom, swinging it like a bat at his middle.
It connected, and the entire wooden rod vibrated, pain shooting into my hands.
“You’re going to pay for that,” the man grunted, forgetting he had a gun and charging me.
I swung the broom again, and he caught it, yanking it toward him so he could grab me instead. I threw up my knee, jamming it into his nuts. He twisted, an attempt to evade, but by the color seeping from his face, I knew I did some damage. Before he could recover, I lashed out, sinking my teeth into his arm. I bit so savagely that the taste of blood flooded my mouth and my jaw screamed in pain.
He roared and shoved me away. My body went flying backward into the small fridge.
A second man stepped into the apartment. “What the fuck is taking so long?”
“That little shit bit me!” the first one snapped, showing his partner his bloody arm.
“For shit’s sake, Cross, just shoot him,” the other man bitched.
To my right was a drawer with random utensils, and I yanked it open, sending the entire thing crashing to the floor. A bullet hit the fridge just as I bent to grab the sharpest knife I had, which wasn’t great, but A for effort, right?
Another shot popped off, and I flung the door open, using it as a shield. The sound of the bullet hitting the metal on the other side sent a lightning bolt of fear straight to my heart.
What the fuck was I doing? I’d never win in a fight against these men. There were three of them,andthey had guns.
I peeked around the fridge door and nearly got shot in the face.
If you’re wondering why no one had come running to help—it was every man for himself in the slums. I was kinda glad Rett wasn’t home. He was probably the only one who’d actually try and help and would probably eat a bullet for the effort.
“Who are you?” I yelled, hoping to distract them while I caught my breath.
“Your death dealers.”
“I don’t think I want to die today.”
They laughed.
I shot up and threw the knife. My aim was decent, and it caught one of the men in the shoulder, lodging right in his bulging muscle.
