The dumpster slid to the end of the alley, and Bishop fell to his knees, exhausted.
“Good boy,” one of them said.
Bishop’s left arm was cut by the jagged edge of a broken beer bottle. Quickly he took hold of the wound as blood spilled down the arm. He fell back.
“Let’s kill this piece of garbage!”
The onslaught came again. Kicks to the back, ribs, legs, and arms as they growled, and Bishop groaned.
“Get this guy up,” the new leader said.
Bishop was on his knees and weakly pushed himself to his feet. The leader threw his fist into Bishop’s back. But the punch was met with the thick steel of the .45, spraining the boy’s wrist and sending a jolt of pain up Bishop’s spine. Bishop fell to his hands and knees and the gun was revealed.
The boy whined about his fist, which had been cut by the steel and was bleeding.
“Sucka’s got a gun!”
“The whole friggin’ time, he’s had a gun.”
Bishop was weary but fought off the blackout.
“He was gonna kill us,” the leader said as he forced the .45 from Bishop’s jeans.
“Were you thinking about killing us?” he screamed. “Do ’im with the gun,” another said.
“Let’s see his brains hit the cement.”
“I’ve never seen someone shot in the head. Hit ’im point blank.”
The leader laughed. “You guys are sick.” He pointed the gun at Bishop’s skull.
“Naw, get closer. The closer you are the more brains we’ll see.”
The leader stared at his crew, grinned, and stepped closer to Bishop—the gun only an inch away.
“Sorry, sucker,” the leader said. “Shouldn’t have tried to kill us.”
He squeezed the trigger.