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Two men behind the black cars drop.
Leaving at least four men shooting at him. Four against one.
“He’s fucked,” I choke out and slap a hand over my mouth.
Wishing I could take that back.
I don’t know him, but I don’t want to see him die.
“My stupid phone won’t work in here!” Sonya says in frustration. “I can’t call the police.”
James needs help, but I have no idea how to help him. Not when we have no weapons and two vulnerable babies.
“Does this thing, this computer or whatever, have any kind of weapon systems?” Sonya asks as the screen changes to the backyard.
I shake my head. “If only…”
The security system is expensive and no doubt state of the art, but the kind of weapon system Sonya is talking about just isn’t a reality.
“There has to be something here,” Sonya thinks out loud as she spins to look around the room. “Your man has to have some guns in here.”
“My man?” I repeat, not sure if I heard her right.
Did she call Judemyman?
“You’re living with him, aren’t you?” Sonya says as she moves forward and starts to rip through the stacks of boxes one-handed. “Sleeping in the same bed?”
“Yeah…” I admit numbly.
“Then he’s yours,” Sonya says as if she has the authority.
Tossing a box to the side, she starts to dig through the next one only to stop and jerk her head towards the bed. “And from the way he looks, I bet he can’t sleep without a gun somewhere nearby.”
“There you go again, talking about the way he looks,” I grumble. “What’s wrong with the way he looks?”
I continue to stare at the screen, willing for it to change again. This conversation is totally silly, but it’s a nice distraction from the gravity of the situation.
“Like I said earlier, total serial killer.” Sonya walks up to the bed and tries to lift the corner but can’t with Alex in her arms.
Setting Alex down in the playpen, she glances at me. “It’s in his eyes. It’s always in the eyes…”
The screen cycles back to the front yard, showing the cars again.
Growing bolder now that most of the opposition has been eliminated, two men are easing out from behind their doors.
And James isn’t straightening. He isn’t taking any shots at them.
Why isn’t he shooting?
He remains crouched, prodding at his right shoe.
When no one shoots back at them, the men grow even bolder and begin to creep up my driveway.
James won’t hear me if I scream. There’s too much metal and concrete between us. And I have no way to contact him.
No way to tell him that the men are sneaking up on him.
“I knew it!” Sonya says triumphantly.
