FACING A FIREARM TIP #2: The only dangerous part is the barrel. Control the barrel, control the gunman.
A rifle has a long barrel. It’s meant to kill at a distance. Dustin’s swing act reminded me of a metronome, the thing that sits on a piano and keeps time when you’re learning to play. Mom insisted on lessons when I was young, wanting to expose me to “culture.” I never caught on, but my teacher was fond of saying “find the time between the swings.”
I did. Dustin was confident, had gotten used to swinging that gun in a rhythm, more intimidation than action. On that final swing, the one where he might’ve killed me, I was in motion the second he cleared Reya.
He panicked when I moved, squeezing off a round that would’ve stopped my heart—had I been where he thought I was. Only the barrel of a gun is dangerous, and that long rifle barrel can be unwieldy for a kid with a broken arm. I went low, under the bullet. He couldn’t adjust fast enough. By the time he did, I had a grip on the barrel, directing it away from me and Reya. He squeezed two more rounds, each damaging the wall and nothing else.
I gave him my best punch, right on the chin.
He laughed and slugged me with his cast arm. It felt like a crowbar.
I went down sideways, snatching the rifle from his poor grip, but unable to hang on to it myself. It spun across the carpet.
He moved toward it. I couldn’t let that happen. If he got it back, or worse, reached a loaded handgun—much shorter barrel, much harder to control—we were done.
I scrambled on my knees to cut him off, punching him hard in the thigh. His leg buckled slightly, but he managed to swing with his good hand, catching me behind the ear. His punches felt like he was swinging dumbbells.
Can’t stay down, Nick. Stay down and you die.
Snagging his belt, I yanked myself up, throwing him off balance. He went for a power hook that I saw coming, and ducked before he took my head off. I positioned myself between him and the guns, raised my hands.
His smile widened as he went to the balls of his feet, brought his cast hand to his ear and his good hand under his eye, forming fists. “A lot of people thought my dad was abusive,” he said, faking a jab and a cross. “He was just a hands-on kind of teacher.”
The next jab busted my lip.
Two more punches, a hook and an uppercut. I blocked the hook, which was probably his intent, because all of his power was in the uppercut, his cast arm landing squarely in the pit of my stomach, taking me back to one knee.
He geared up for an overhand strike that would likely knock me unconscious. I’d sleep through him blowing my head off if I let him win this fight. He was a trained boxer. His skill at the sport topped mine in every way. But boxers have one universal weakness.
Rules.
I grabbed a handful of broken glass, slicing my palm and not caring, flicked it in his face as he swung. He screamed, and the punch clipped my shoulder. I drove that same shoulder into his midsection, ran him backward, tripping him on his father’s dead body. We both went down on a bloodstain, me on top, and I proceeded to beat him with every bit of rage I’d spared Zach Lynch from.
Fists, knees, elbows. He fought, too, but I was beyond pain. For each of his blows, I gave back two. I watched his face darken, and puff, and leak as my hands smashed, smashed, smashed. When one of his teeth flew sideways from his mouth, I paused, finally feeling the throbbing from my split knuckles. The blood on his face was as much mine as his.
The crazy bastard was still conscious, though.
“That’s enough, Nick,” said Reya. “It’s my turn.”
I followed her voice. She inspected Dustin’s discarded rifle like an expert, turning it this way and that, checking the receiver and ejector ports, staring down the sight.
She said, “Move. I’ll finish it.”
I didn’t move. “Reya, he’s done. Let’s call someone and they can take him away.”
“We can’t trust the cops, remember? That’s not one of his ‘maybe it’s real, maybe it’s not’ stories. You said that. Move!”
Dustin spat up a clump of blood. “Move, Nick. Let me get a go with her.”
I punched him unconscious. I’m trying to save your life, jerk. “Reya, put that gun down.”
“He killed my brother, his friends, tried to kill us. I’m ending that pendejo. And don’t try to give me some ‘I’m better than that’ bull. I’m not better than avenging my brother.”
I wasn’t going to give her that speech. For one, it was bull. Stuff they say in movies so the hero won’t kill the main bad guy, even though he probably killed a hundred henchmen getting to the villain. The military and the police killed bad guys all the time. Hell, one of the people I loved most in the world killed bad guys for money. Dustin Burke deserved to go.
Reya didn’t deserve what came after.
I’d seen what happened when people had blood on their hands. Bricks took pills to sleep, never had a girlfriend for more than a few weeks. My dad turned mean and bitter, basically flushed his family down the toilet. Dustin, he got hungry for more blood, saw it all like some play he was directing.
Offing Dustin in Eli’s name might not be a negative for Reya. Maybe she’d grow up to have a good life, healthy relationships, peace. I wasn’t willing to bet on it though, even if the collateral was a piece of crap like Dustin Burke.
I stood up, kept myself between her and him.
Twin trails of tears slid down her cheeks. “Please move, Nick.”
“I can’t do that.” I closed the distance.
She aimed. At me. “Maldita sea! Move!”
I grabbed the barrel, as I had with Dustin, but gently. She let the gun go. I tossed it aside and embraced her, let her cry.
We still had a problem. We couldn’t trust the cops, but we had to call someone.
One person came to mind.
I walked Reya to the corner, retrieved our phones, and made the call. “Dad, I’ve got trouble.”
I explained as much as I could as fast as I could, never taking my eyes off Dustin. He stayed as still as his father. When I was done, Dad got quiet. I was afraid I’d dropped the call.
“Hello?” I said.
“I’m here.” He didn’t sound like it. He seemed distracted.
“Did you hear what I told you?” Paper rustled, like when we were on the conference call and Bertram shuffled through his files. “Where are you?”
“I’m at home, son.”
“I don’t want Mom to know what happened, okay?”
“She won’t,” he said, still vacant, not engaged. Like I hadn’t told him I was in a room with a corpse and a killer.
“Dad, I need you.”
“I heard you,” he snapped. He backpedaled. “Hang tight. I’m going to take care of this.”
“You’re coming?”
“Answer when the doorbell rings. No matter what.” He hung up.
What was that?
It was an hour before we knew. The doorbell rang, and I answered it, like I’d been told. I’d expected Dad, maybe some of his Whispertown buddies who knew how to take care of things like this. Not the people waiting on the other side of the door.
It was Sheriff Hill and the Stepton Police Department.
He said, “Nick Pearson, you have the right to remain silent . . .”