I almost laugh.
He still doesn’t get it.
Hasn’t clocked the fact that no one else in this room has even twitched, hasn’t noticed that Igor hasn’t moved, that my father hasn’t reached for anything, that I’m not even slightly concerned about the gun pointed at my chest.
“My name’s Theodore, bitch.”
He pulls the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
He frowns, jerks the gun slightly, pulls again.
Click.
Still nothing.
“Jonathon, you were right! Rat man did pull the trigger!” Igor says, taking a twenty-dollar note from his pocket and handing it to my dad.
My dad takes the money with a sneer, snatches the gun from Gideon’s grubby little fingers, ejects the magazine, checks it, then, with the slide pulled back, drops a round in. It snaps shut, the magazine clicking back into place.
I see the look in Gideon’s eyes as he realizes the truth of the situation he’s in—that moment where it all crashes down, where realization hits and the illusion shatters—and I watch it happen in real time as his eyes widen just a fraction, as he looks at the gun like it’s betrayed him, like his God just failed him.
Then he moves.
Too late.
I’m on him before he makes it two steps, slamming him back into the wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs as my hand closes around his throat, pinning him there, lifting him just enough that his heels scrape against the floor.
Up close, he doesn’t look powerful.
He looks small.
The piece of shit appears to be having a crisis of faith.
My fist connects with his face, the impact solid and satisfying as I feel his nose give under the force.
“That’s for my wife.”
I drag him forward just enough to slam my forehead into his, the crack echoing in the confined space as his head snaps back.
“That’s for stabbing me like a fucking pussy.”
He’s barely conscious when my father steps forward again, pressing the gun into my hand.
I take it.
Feel the weight of it settle into my palm as I press the barrel dead center against Gideon’s forehead, right between his eyes, exactly where it belongs.
“This,” I say quietly, “is for my family.”
His eyes squeeze shut.
I should just do it. I can do it… but…
Rushed whispers of prayer for mercy sound out, one stumbling word after another. I look up and find my dad watching me. God, he pisses me off just looking at him like that… is it disappointment? What the hell is that look supposed to be?
