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Dad probably hadn’t heard any of their talk. Duncan told him now, “I don’t think they know about us. I can hear a little what they’re saying, and they’re trying to figure out what the fuck.”
“That’s good. Let’s move while they’re wondering and not paying attention.”
Duncan nodded, and his father drew him around to the door.
It had glass panes. Dad held him back, counted off three, and kicked the door in.
Absolute chaos ensued.
Duncan knew very little of what was going on around him; all he knew was his job. He aimed and fired as soon as he hit the doorway, and dropped one of the guys. Off to his left, his father was struggling with Lopez. But Duncan had a job to do, so he didn’t let that fact sink in yet.
The other guy charged at him. Duncan’s first shot at him went wide, and the guy knocked him down. They fought over the gun, and the guy punched Duncan hard in the face three times while Duncan put all his effort into keeping hold of his father’s Glock.
Finally, he got his hand free and slammed the gun into the side of the guy’s head, hard enough to stun him. Then he pushed off with one foot and rolled them both over. Once he was on top, he shoved the suppressor under the guy’s chin and fired. The top of the guy’s head blew off, and brain matter and blood sprayed out and hit the wall in a plume.
Duncan rolled to his feet and spun around at once, ready to help his father.
Lopez and Dad were both on the ground. Neither was moving.
“Fuck! Dad!” Duncan clambered over the mess and dropped to his knees beside his father. Blood soaked the front of his hoodie.
“Dad!”
“I’m okay,” Dad groaned. “I’m okay. It’s my shoulder.”
He groaned again, louder, and tried to sit up. Duncan helped him, then started tearing the zipper of his hoodie down.
Dad brushed him off with one hand. The other, on his wounded side, was limp. “Hold up. Make sure we’re clear first. Check ‘em.”
With a nod, Duncan stood and did a check of the bodies in the room. Four men, zero pulses. It looked like Arlo had been choked out. Lopez had Dad’s knife in his chest. In his heart. Duncan had killed the others with his father’s gun.
“They’re dead. All of ‘em.”
Dad nodded. Maybe he thought he was okay, but he was pale and sweaty, and his face was creased with pain. Duncan dropped to his knees again and finished opening his father’s clothes until he finally reached his bare chest. The wound was high on the right side, in the meat between his clavicle and his armpit. The gash was deep and puffy, bleeding freely, and the skin around it deep red, working toward purple. But there were no organs up there, so yeah, probably not fatal. As long as he didn’t bleed out.
“My own fuckin’ knife,” Dad said in a groany half-chuckle.
Duncan grabbed the bandana out of his own pocket and pressed it to the wound. “Hold it there. We gotta get you sewn up.”
“You too,” Dad said. “You’re bleeding.”
Duncan wiped the blood from his cheek with his sleeve. “Fuckhead’s wearing a big ring. I’m okay.”
Dad took over the bandana with his good hand. “We have to deal with the bodies first thing. Make yourself presentable, go out to the truck, and get the supplies. I’ll walk you through this, but you’re going to have to do it on your own, son.”
The supplies. Those meant to dismember a body and turn it into trash, so it would look like they’d been helping Lopez work on his boat.
Duncan was going to have to do that for four bodies. On his own.
He took a deep breath and stood up.
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~oOo~
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“You did good, kid,” Eight Ball told Duncan.
