If all he wanted was to get laid, plenty of dancers at the strip club wanted to party with the members just for a good time. He’d had many nameless encounters that were nothing more than temporary physical releases. At one time in his life, that satisfied him. Now in his mid-thirties, the games tired him, and he wanted more. Envy became a familiar emotion as he watched some of his friends enjoying happy, fulfilled lives with their old ladies.
The first time he saw Tracie, her cuteness attracted him, and the fact that she didn’t seem fazed by the rough biker appearance. The second time, she greeted him by name.
“Quillon. Isn’t that the guard grip on a sword?”
“Yeah. I work at a machine shop and do some blade forging on the side. You know a lot about swords?”
She’d flushed red. “I read a lot of books.”
Since then, he made a point of coming to her window and making small talk. Favorite movies, music, hobbies, and other bits of life’s trivia. Her eyes sparkled as she talked about her cats. He found out she didn’t like pierogies, one of Pittsburgh’s biggest food offerings, but often ate chipped chopped ham sandwiches for lunch. The more personal facts he learned about her, the more intrigued he became. She seemed to accept him, but the club part concerned him a little. What did she think about that?
He’d ask her later—once they got through this fucked-up day.
They faced each other across the bank lobby, eyes still locked together. He flared his nostrils and took an exaggerated breath, drawing in deeply and expanding his wide chest. Then he blew through his mouth, letting it out slow. He repeated the action, and she copied him, matching his inhale and exhale. They breathed together for several rounds, and she visibly relaxed. She even gave him a small smile.
That trust lodged in his gut. If they got out of this shit, she belonged to him.
Quillon spotted the security guard slipping a hand to his hip.Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it,he instructed in his head. But sure enough, the gray-haired Barney Fife jerked his weapon out and pointed it at Gangster Guy.
“Freeze! Yous guys are under arrest!”
Gangster Guy swore as he swung his gun at the guard and fired. The bullet went wild in the air, hitting the white plaster wall high above Quillon’s head. A light dust puffed up and drifted down to his hair. Quillon suppressed a laugh as the other patrons screamed and ducked.
He and his club brother Wolf had debated about this very topic more than once. Holding a handgun sideways to be cool was a stupid idea, though not for the reasons Wolf thought. The myth that the backlash of the gun would smack the wannabein the face wouldn’t happen. Physics was physics, and the gun would always recoil up. However, the awkward angle of the wrist and sights meant the shooter would seldom hit his target and probably have trouble resetting his position. Not something a real gun pro would do.
AR-man took care of the situation by walking up to the geriatric guard, taking the pistol from him, and clocking him in the side of the head with it. Barney crumpled into a heap with a bloody gash at his temple and stayed there.
Tweaker yelled and jerked Tracie back into his body as if trying to hide behind her. Quillon’s mirth stopped at her gasp of pain. He opened his mouth and called out, “Yo, how ’bout yinz grab the money and get out of here while you still can?”
A chance existed that if these amateurs got what they wanted, they would leave before the cops or another customer showed up and all hell broke loose. That was the best end to this scene, and he prayed it worked out. Someone had already fired one bullet. Not hard to imagine more on the way.
Of course, God didn’t always answer prayers. Multiple sirens split the air as the police cars arrived. Quillon winced as the deafening cacophony reached his ears. Flashing lights decorated the walls in thin blue and red stripes through the open blinds.
Tweaker lost it. “Fuck, Sean, what do we do?”
He still had the gun pointed at the back of Tracie’s head. Quillon watched two tears track down her face as her lids fluttered down and she braced for an expected bullet. His jaw tightened enough to crack his teeth. That fucker was going to pay and pay hard.
“Don’t say my name, you moron!” Gangster Guy—Sean—hissed. He darted to the window and, like a dumbass, peeked out. “Goddamn, there’s a lotta cops out there.”
“Close the blinds and get away from there,” AR-man said. His voice was calm, low, and soft, but the tone carried a commandthat rang out as if he’d shouted. “They’re putting snipers into place about now.”
Tweaker got more agitated. “Snipers? What the fuck?”
He seemed to have forgotten the woman he held in front of him. She finished cleaning out the cash drawer at that station, holding herself rigid and biting her lower lip again to keep it from trembling. More tears fell and dripped down her cheeks to fall from her chin. She didn’t move to wipe them away, but she kept her eyes up and staring straight into Quillon’s.
What I wouldn’t give to know her thoughts right now.
“Listen, man, we didn’t sign up for this sh—” Sean started, but the phones cut him off when they all rang simultaneously.
Tweaker cried out and yanked at Tracie again, pulling her from behind the counter to the middle of the lobby floor to get closer to Sean. The money remained on the counter. “Stay still, bitch!”
Quillon heard her cut off a yelp of pain, and her head jerked forward as he jabbed the gun barrel into her skull again. A growl of angry gurgles started in the back of his throat. He couldn’t wait to teach Tweaker a lesson.
AR-man went to the phone on the closest desk and punched a button. “Yeah.”
“This is Officer Beckridge from PPD. We’ve been informed of a hostage situation and that shots have been fired. Is anyone hurt?”
“Everyone’s breathing. Pull back or they won’t be.” He hung up.
