Shot Girl Page 24

  I didn’t know if I was talking to my legs, or to myself, but I managed to get upright once again, and as my whole body trembled I felt around for the safe.

  There. Wedged in the back.

  I got a hand on it—

  —pulled it a few inches—

  —and let go, once again collapsing back into my wheelchair.

  I considered calling for Agmont. But then my mother’s voice came into my head. Something she’d said while phubbing me at a rehab session.

  “The woman I raised wouldn’t ask for help. She’d help herself.”

  And she was right.

  She was always right.

  I grabbed the doorway again, sweat beading into my stinging eyes, and stood for a third time.

  My legs wanted to give up.

  My back wanted to give up.

  But I wasn’t just the sum of my parts.

  I was stronger than that.

  My mom raised a fighter.

  I reached up again, getting my fingers on the gun safe—

  —and pulled it off the shelf.

  When I fell back into my chair, the fifteen pound safe in my lap, I heard Dr. Agmont say, “Your mother thinks your gun key is in her shorts, and laundry service picked it up.”

  He was right behind me, and I startled at his voice. “You were there the whole time?”

  “Just a few seconds.”

  “You could have helped.”

  “You did fine on your own.”

  Even in a crisis, Agmont still couldn’t stop being a shrink.

  Not having my trigger lock key was irritating, but I still had a good chance of stopping the shooter with my mother’s pistol. I dialed the combination—my birthday—and opened up the safe, staring at her old service revolver.

  The .32 Colt Police Positive.

  Nickel-plated, older than I was, but Mom kept it in excellent shape. Though a smaller caliber than my .38, this had a longer barrel, which improved accuracy. Mom also had an open box of .32 wadcutters; bullets with a flat lead head that were commonly used for target practice because they punched clean holes in paper silhouettes.

  They also devastated soft tissue.

  I checked the gun, unloaded, and counted 10 bullets in the box.

  “Will that be enough?” Agmont asked.

  “It has to be.”

  The alternative was unthinkable.

  I tucked the gun and box of bullets into my seat compartment.

  “Help me put on the vest. And don’t tell me I need to do it myself.”

  “A good psychiatrist always listens to their patient.”

  I leaned forward and lifted up my arms, and Agmont placed it over my head and pushed down the back panel while I tightened the side straps.

  While I dressed for the showdown, I argued with myself in my head.

  I wanted Agmont to stay here with Mom, push the refrigerator in front of the door after I left, and guard her with his life.

  But the best chance for the survival of the several hundred people at the Darling Center was for Agmont to get to the nearest police station and bring in SWAT.

  I remember being asked a similar question, a long time ago, by none other than Harry McGlade. We’d been working a prostitute sting, me in heels and a micro mini and a mic in my push-up bra and earpiece hidden behind gigantic puffy 80’s hair, and while waiting for johns Harry entertained himself by asking me deep philosophical questions, like would I drink a cup of my own urine every day if I was guaranteed to live to a hundred. My answer was no. Harry’s answer was hell yeah, he did it anyway.

  The question that stood out, the question that seemed just as fanciful at the time but turned out to be wildly prophetic, was if I had to decide whether to save five hundred strangers, or one person that I loved, which would I choose.

  A terrible decision to make.

  But that’s exactly what I had to do.

  I just needed to clear it with the boss.

  I rolled into Mom’s bedroom. Her eyes pinned me, and she must have noticed the vest because she grunted twice.

  “I have to,” I told her.

  Another double grunt.

  “I know. I was there for my gun talk. Run/Hide/Fight. But you said it yourself. You didn’t raise a runner. You didn’t raise a hider.” I reached over, grabbed her hand. “You raised a fighter.”

  Her good eye teared up. Both of mine did, too.

  “I want Dr. Agmont to stay here with you and protect you while I’m gone. He’ll move something heavy in front of the door. You’ll be safe.”

  Two more grunts.

  “It’s a no-brainer, Mom. I can’t lose one more person I love. If he went for the cops, maybe it would save more lives. But I care about you. You’re the one I want to save.”

  Mom’s lips moved. She was trying to say something.

  “You’re not changing my mind. I’m going to try to stop this guy. I’m going to try my best. And maybe I will. And maybe I won’t. But I can’t leave you alone. I don’t care what you say.”

  Once again, she tried to speak. It came out garbled, but I heard just enough to know what it was.

  “Pussy.”

  And I knew what she meant.

  Mom wasn’t calling me weak.

  She was reclaiming that word.

  My mother was saying I was strong.

  My eyes hurt from all the crying I’d done, but they’d never hurt like this.

  “Please, Mom. Please don’t make me leave you alone.”

  But I saw the resolve on her face. And I knew my mother.

  “You’re an even bigger pussy than I am,” I told her through all the tears.

  I gripped her bedrail and pulled myself to my feet.

  Then I kissed her on the cheek.

  If I stayed any longer I’d lose my resolve, so I sat back down and wheeled into the kitchen, finding her spare apartment key. Then I gave instructions to Agmont.

  “Get out of the building, get to the police station. Tell them everything about the shooter. And tell them I’m on their team and to watch for me.”

  “You’re going to face him? Alone?”

  “It’s our best bet. I’ll take the elevator. You take the stairs. Give me the key to the basement.”

  He handed it over. “Are you sure this is the best course of action?”

  I nodded. “Get to your car. Bring help.”

  He nodded, then held out his hand. I shook it.

  “Good luck, Jill.”

  I made a face. “You’re my shrink, right?”

  “Insofar as you want me to be.”

  “So there’s a doctor/patient confidentiality.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Then stop calling me Jill Johnson.” I took my mother’s .32 Colt Police Positive out from under my seat and set it on my lap. “My name is Jack Daniels,” I told Dr. Agmont. “And I’m going to take this fucker down.”

  “I truly believe that firearms in the hands of law abiding citizen’s makes our families and our communities more safe, not less safe.”

  MIKE PENCE

  “For an unarmed man may be attacked with greater confidence than an armed man.”

  THOMAS JEFFERSON

  GAFF

  I hit the call button on the elevator, and when it came I almost stepped inside.

  Almost.

  A thought stopped me.

  Hella chances that other people—even old people with bad hearing one floor above me while a hurricane raged outside—heard the gunshots.

  If I used the elevator, I’d be warning them I was coming, and telling them exactly which direction I was coming from.

  So I let the ‘vator doors close, and went back to the stairwell in the middle of the building.

  On god.

  I opened the door, slowly, and took out an earplug so I could hear.

  Nothing. Just Hurricane Harry, so loud and angry I could hear the storm through the walls.

  I walked up the stairs, slow and easy, and when I made it up tw
o flights to the second floor I heard a noise.

  Footsteps. From above. Coming down.

  I got down on one knee, holding the Merican in both hands, aiming at the top of the stairs where the angle landing was.

  The footsteps got louder, getting closer… louder, getting closer… and—

  They stopped. Right above me.

  I waited, holding my breath, finger on the trigger and death on the brain—

  —and then I realized my mistake.

  My green laser dot. On the stairwell wall.

  Dude saw it and knew I was there.

  #MyBad.

  I rushed up the stairs just as the door to the third floor almost closed, and I breezed through it and looked left, then right, and saw a man running.

  Not an old dude. The doctor, from Building A, who got away from me before.

  This time he wouldn’t get away.

  I chased him all the way to the elevator, sprayed full auto and hit him in the back just as he pressed the call button.

  He dropped, moaning and writhing, and I took my time walking over.

  Bruh was a snack, even with his pain face on.

  “Y’all had a chance to get away. Why’d you stay?”

  “I’m… I’m a doctor. I… I…”

  “You what? Spit it out. I’m on a tight schedule.”

  #GaffTheStoneColdBadAss.

  “I… help people.”

  “I wasted 29 people so far. You didn’t help any of them.”

  “Maybe… maybe… I can help…”

  “Help who? Help me? You a shrink?”

  He nodded.

  Wrong answer, bruh.

  “I hate shrinks,” I said. “All my life, you scrubs been putting me down. Saying I was messed in the head. Putting me on all sorts of meds and shit. You know what I think of shrinks?”

  I squeezed the trigger, aiming for his stomach.

  A single bullet hit home, but then the slide stayed open.

  #EmptyDrum.

  As Hot Dr. Shrink moaned and clutched his belly, I reached into my bag—

  —and then heard the elevator BING.

  I watched as the doors opened, and saw some lady in a wheelchair. Looked younger than all the old people around here and was she wearing a bullet proof vest? and HOLY SHIT SHE HAS A GUN!

  The first round hit me in my helmet and the second caught me on the side of my face and then I was running fast AF down the hall and three shots hit my back and one more caught the edge of my hip.

  I turned the corner, threw my shoulder against the wall, and felt my face, my ear.

  Where my ear used to be.

  Nothing there but a hole. My glove came back all bloody.

  Then I touched my hip, which hurt even more, and saw more blood.

  Someone started to scream, and I realized it was me.

  All the beautiful, sensual tingling vanished, the happy gassed zone I’d been rocking turned dark, and rage took over. White-hot hate-filled lit woke rage, and I changed my drum mag to a full one as I blinked like a fiend and yelled, “YOU BITCH! YOU’RE DEAD YOU BITCH!”

  And then the wheelchair bitch yelled back.

  “Come and get me, asshole!”

  Don’t do me dirty, chica.

  I quickly stepped around the corner, and she shot me right in my effen gun.

  I went back to hiding, checking my weapon for damage.

  The suppressor. She hit the goddamn suppressor from thirty meters away.

  WTF? Who the hell was this trash?

  The silencer had a bend in it, so I grabbed the base—the blood on my glove sizzling from the heat—and then I unscrewed it and dropped it in my bag.

  My ear started to hella ache, and my hip throbbed even worse. I looked down, saw a bloody crease in my pants.

  Super Wheelchair Bitch had fired seven shots, and all of them had hit home.

  So… what do I do?

  Take the L? Run?

  My high score was 29. Maybe 30, if the hot doctor kicked.

  A solid effort. Enough to make me viral. Enough to impress Tully.

  Should I get away, go bigger next time?

  #Indecisions.

  #MakeAChoice.

  I reached up, felt my ear again—

  —and realized my rave mask was off.

  Shit. Super Wheelchair Bitch had seen my face. So had Hot Dr. Shrink.

  They saw me.

  They knew my secret.

  They would tell 5-0. There would be police sketches all over the news, all over the net.

  Plus I was bleeding DNA evidence all over the place.

  I’d be caught. I’d be convicted.

  I’d do time. Life. Or maybe death. Florida had the death penalty.

  But prison didn’t scare me, yo.

  Neither did lethal injection.

  Nothing scared me. I didn’t have the fear gene.

  But I didn’t get triple digits yet.

  I wasn’t going out until I hit 100.

  That meant Super Wheelchair Bitch and Hot Dr. Shrink had to die.

  #Going4It.

  I thought about sticking my gun around the corner, spraying blind, but I didn’t want Super Wheelchair Bitch to shoot my gun again.

  So I changed my plan, pulling my mask on, sitting down, gritting my teeth against the pain in my leg. I’d shoot from the floor, on my side. Maybe that would surprise her just enough for me to take her out.

  I needed to go for the head, because of her vest. But if I kept my hands steady, aimed good, and emptied a whole drum at her, I think my chances were dope.

  Bouta bang 30s.

  I took a deep breath and laid down, aiming around the corner—

  —and Super Wheelchair Bitch shot me once in the helmet and twice in the chest and I sprayed the ceiling while retreating around the corner.

  “Next one is going in your face!” Super Wheelchair Bitch yelled.

  I felt my vest, felt the bruises. Her shots came within an inch of my bare neck.

  WTF? Did she shoot in the effen Olympics?

  Think, Gaff.

  #HowDoIBeatHer?

  I got hundreds of rounds and an automatic weapon. She got that old ass revolver.

  But she also got hype mad skills. When Super Wheelchair Bitch said she’d shoot me in the face, I believed her.

  #GrrlPowerYo.

  Take a minute.

  What the move.

  Move…

  I could move.

  I could move faster than her.

  I had fifty rounds in the drum.

  Her revolver only had six.

  If I could run at her, zig-zag, make her waste bullets, I could get to her before she could reload.

  As long as she didn’t get the kill shot, I was home free.

  I took out my current mag, pulled the spring, and put in more rounds until I filled it back up. Then I stuck it back in the Merican and flipped the giggle to SEMI.

  No spraying and hoping.

  I finna make every bullet count.

  Not bouta catch a fade, yo.

  Clap back in three… two… one!

  I ran around the corner—

  —and saw the elevator doors close.

  Super Wheelchair Bitch and Hot Dr. Shrink were gone.

  I watched, saw the elevator stop on the fourth floor.

  Then I limped back to the stairs fast as I could.

  “The two most important things to do for self-defense are not to take a martial arts class or get a gun, but to think like the opposition and know where you’re most at risk.”

  BARRY EISLER

  “If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns.”

  ANONYMOUS

  JACK

  I fired ten shots, unsure if I killed the shooter or not.

  My guess was not.

  Which horrified me, because I had no bullets left.

  “Next one is going in your face!” I yelled over the ringing in my ears.

  Then I reached down for Agmont. He’d been shot several
times, bleeding everywhere, but his breathing seemed steady. Somehow, he and I managed to get him up onto my chair, his arms around my shoulders, and I called for the elevator, pressing both the UP and DOWN call buttons. The doors opened, and I managed to back us up inside, and I pressed the CLOSE DOORS button again and again, hoping it wasn’t just a placebo.

  The doors closed just as the shooter came running around the corner, and I had to make a quick choice.

  I could go down to the basement level. But I was limited in my ability to wheel around with Agmont awkwardly holding on. And once we got there, where could we go? Into the hurricane, to his car? He couldn’t drive. Neither could I.

  Maybe we could get away, but there was still an active shooter in the building.

  Which meant I still had a job to do.

  A job to protect and serve.

  There were a whole lot of people who needed protection.

  But how could I protect them with no bullets?

  I had an idea. I pressed the 4 button.

  “Is the shooter…?” Dr. Agmont mumbled, his voice trailing off.

  I knew what he meant. “Yeah. I think so.”

  When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, I managed to wheel us into the hallway. Luckily, stupidly luckily, B41 was the first door I came to.

  I banged on it, hard, yelling for help.

  After fifteen seconds, the door opened. Mr. Fincherello, in his robe, Mrs. Fincherello in a night gown standing behind him, her hand clutching her collar.

  Mr. Fincherello pulled us inside and shut the door.

  “My God! What’s going on?” Mrs. Fincherello asked.

  “There’s an active shooter downstairs, coming up. Help me get him on the floor.”

  Both of them eased Dr. Agmont off my lap, and I dug into my seat compartment and pulled out everything.

  “Mrs. Fincherello, this is my first aid kit. Inside you’ll find packets of QuikClot. It’s a blood clotting powder. Pour them on Dr. Agmont’s wounds to stop the bleeding.”

  She took the case and went to work.

  I turned to Mr. Fincherello and handed him my leather pouch. “Please tell me you have lock picks.”

  “I’m a locksmith. What’s a locksmith without lockpicks? It’s like a whore without a hoo-ha.”

  “The trigger lock on my gun. I need you to open it.”