| Courtesy: ramanon.com |
Today’s Prompt:
The
detective saw his opportunity. He grabbed the waitress’ arm and said…
Word Count: 1,423
“Move bitch!”
Slugs cut through the scrumptious
air, whizzed past his ears and slammed into the walls generating an audible
thud. Shards of glass came crashing down making discordant music. His eardrums
echoing the report. Screams crammed the enclosed space. People everywhere crawling
on all fours, yelling for dear life. This wasn’t time for consoling people, it
wasn’t even time for getting mad. This was time for getting even. There’ll be
time enough to count the wounded when the gun spray stops. Right there and
then, he was the prosecution, the jury and the judge. Case closed.
Ita (/hitter/) leveled his Luger
at the chest of a man donning a Picasso-style beret. He figured this artist knew more about squeezing
triggers than handling brushes. He bust two shots into him and watched as the
force flung him against a litter of furniture. He bounced off and slid to the
floor, chairs collapsed on top of him in his wake and buried him under in mock
funeral. Ita hit the floor as one of the gangsters took a shot at him. The
waitress was sprawled out face down on the floor. Ita crawled towards her, pulling
himself forward on the tiles like a crocodilian reptile to achieve the feat. He
called out to her in hushed tones as he came close to where she lay.
There was no response. For all Ita
knew the woman might be out of commission. Why
waste your breath on a hunk of dead meat? He thought to himself. Because I used her as a kind of human
shield, that’s why, he answered
himself.
“Hey, Ita.” Dark Son, leader of the murderous pack
called out. “You can forget about her, she used to be one of our own, anyways.”
“I know.” He did too. “But it didn’t have to be like
this.”
“It’s a deadly game you pulling a stunt like you did.
Any fool would know you guys were gonna show up.”
“Let guess, you had a snitch,” Ita said, feeling the
waitress’ neck for a pulse.
“Hell yeah, plus you know I’m on first name basis
with the cops.”
The sound of a gunshot on Dark
Son’s side of the diner and Ita heard as a bullet rebounded off the wall a few
inches above his head.
“Damn, you’re on fire today. A word of caution,
though. Don’t waste the slugs, I came loaded.”
“Those two colleagues of yours we took out?”
“What about them?”
“They were on the mob’s payroll but I bet you already
knew that.”
“I’m impressed.” But he didn’t sound impressed. “How
come you’re always taking out your own people, I wonder?”
“Because sniveling rat’s ass like you always get them
involved when you make a bust, that’s why.”
Dark Son sounded furious. ‘Let him,’ Ita thought. ‘When they’re mad they become irrational and
that gives me a fighting chance, at least.’
People cluttered the diner’s
floor. Ita observed as men who ought to shield the women scrambled over them
and tried to get the best shot at safety. The gangsters had taken no hostages
yet but under the present circumstances, Ita figured that was unnecessary. There
was about six of them against one; Ita was outnumbered and outgunned. Ita was all
the hostage they needed. He hadn’t expected this bust to fall flop
and bad but The Corleone Associates
had whiff they were coming and had blown their cover. One of the dudes, the one
Ita took out had pulled his 9milimeter on the waitress and dared Ita to make a
false move. Ita had his chance when someone who was not supposed to be in the
diner at that time came trotting through the doors into the café. Dark Son had pumped
two to his head from his Glock, the man was thrown a few feet into the air. He crashed
into the door on his way down and crumpled to the floor in a dead heap. Panic-inspired
disorder had gripped the customers and Ita had made the best of it, thrown the
waitress aside and made a grab for his gun.
Ita was just getting over the
fact that the waitress was DOA when he heard footsteps come up behind him. One
of the gangsters had sneaked stealthily around the overturned tables and stood
directly over him.
Ita whirled around and pulled
the trigger of his Luger in one breath. The tiles beside his head exploded
sending up rubble and dust in a furious spray. Ita pulled the trigger of his
Luger again and again and it paid off as the gangster sprawled to the floor, a
dead mass.
“Two down, three or four more to go,” he said and
kissed the smoking barrel of his semi automatic.
Ita crawled behind an
overturned table and tried to peek from behind it. He was compensated by a bust
from Dark Son’s gun.
“Don’t even think about it, Sherlock Holmes,” Dark
Son said.
Shit,
think, Ita thought. He was as dead as the gangster he just landed
if the members of The Corleone Associates
decided they should move in on him in a kamikaze stance. Warm liquid trickled
into his right eye. Ita swiped at it and checked. Blood. The exploding tiles
from the jerk’s shot must have cut into the flesh on his forehead. He spotted a
whiskey bottle and crept for it. Going for the bottle exposed him to the enemy and
one of Dark Son’s men took a shot at him and missed. Ita applied the spirit to
his wound and shot the rest down his throat. The heat from the whiskey fueled
his adrenalin. Next, Ita flung the bottle into the air. Shots rang through the
room and the bottle exploded and came down in a shower of glass. Ita assumed
crouching position, shot up from behind a table and took shots at the
gangsters. He ducked and heard one of the men curse and on the heels of that a
heavy thump. He figured he offed at least one of them.
One of the thugs who had a semi
automatic machine gun got mad and opened fire. Bullets slammed into the walls,
ripping it apart, fragments of glass flew cutting into anything in its path.
Tiles exploded, tables and chairs were hurled-hurtled into walls and shattered
on impact. Screams from people pierced the air. The noise was deafening.
Ita careered down the diner,
keeping a low profile, ignoring the pain that shot up his arms and legs as he crept
over broken tiles. He bled like a broken spout. Then he heard firm footsteps;
they were coming for him at last. Ita threw himself at the gun that belonged to
the thug he dropped earlier and came back up with guns blazing. He fired
without aiming and just let the bullets ride on the enemy. He took the thugs by
surprise. He nailed two of the men. One of them went down spraying bullets from
his machine gun at everything and nothing in particular. He got the ceiling
fan; one of the blades tore off and sliced the air as it flew across the room.
It slashed one of Dark Son’s men into two halves. One woman screamed.
Only one of the gangsters was
left standing.
“I guess we’re back to where we were before,” Dark
Son said.
“I don’t quite think so,” Ita said. “You took out two
of my men, you’re going down.”
“Save the speech for your maker, detective.” Dark Son
raised his Glock and would have fired when a whirring sound made him
reconsider.
The fan directly above him
unhooked from the ceiling and came crashing down on his head. Dark Son wasn’t
fast enough, and the weight of the fan hit him on the head. He didn’t go down
but he was a bit disoriented. Ita figured the machine gun spray by the dying
gangster got more than one fan. It was the only cue Ita needed and he took it
with grace and style. He pumped the slugs into Dark Son until the chambers of
both guns in his hand clicked empty.
A woman walked up to him when
she believed the coast was clear.
“You are an officer, ain’t you?” She eyed Ita
suspiciously.
“Yes, ma’am. You’re alright now,” Ita said, perching
on the edge of an overturned, broken chair.
“Yes. But are you? You’re bleeding like a pig. Come
here, let me take a look at your wounds. I’m a registered nurse.”
Not everybody was an enemy,
after all.
Eneh
Akpan
June 24, 2013
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