With the Bronco racing out of the driveway and into the shouts of the rioters, I knelt beside Jim.
He turned his head to look at me but didn’t lift it off the linoleum. “Addy?”
“I’m here.”
I looked over my shoulder, surprised to see her coming silently into the kitchen.
Outside, tires squealed and the mob went nuts, screaming at the Bronco, I guessed.
“Addy,” Jim feebly reached out as he gasped. Blood sputtered out of his nostrils and dribbled from his mouth.
Tires continued to screech, but the sound was constant. The Bronco was stuck.
Addy came over and knelt beside her father.
I stood up, but Jim caught my ankle. “Stay.”
I squatted back down.
“Take care of her,” he told me.
“I can take care of myself, Daddy.”
“I will,” I told him, promising because he was dying. I had no idea what I could do that Addy couldn’t do herself.
“Who shot you?” asked Addy, her voice shifting from concern to anger.
“Randy.” Jim could barely muster enough breath to make the word audible.
Addy reached for Jim’s rifle lying on the floor beside him.
“Just,” Jim’s eyes settled on me, “go someplace safe.”
“We can go to my house,” I offered. “We don’t have riots in our part of town.”
“You will,” said Jim. “Don’t stay in Houston. Addy, go to your—” Jim stopped talking. All the air in his lungs flowed slowly out. The grip on my ankle relaxed. Jim was dead.
I jumped to my feet, revenge on my mind, and hurried into the garage through the open door.
Looking back, I saw Addy softly sobbing as she took the magazine out of Jim’s rifle, checking to see how many rounds she had in her father’s gun. Her sobs stopped with only a few tears left on her determined face.
She was my kind of girl.
Through the open garage door, I saw the mob flowing down the street, anxious and angry.
The Bronco’s tires were spinning on asphalt as the engine roared. It sounded like it was trying to pull a stump and going nowhere.
I ran a few steps toward the open door and looked down the street. The Bronco was engulfed in a solid mass of degenerates, all trying to get their hands on it while many of those closest rocked the Bronco from side to side. They were trying to roll it. Others were beating the vehicle with whatever they’d picked up. One of the occupants was being dragged out through a broken window and being beaten as if he was part of the truck.
Hothead, murdering Randy and his buddies were getting exactly what they deserved.
From behind me, Addy said, “I hope the degenerates kill them.”
A rhythmic pounding mixed in with the sound of the riot.
I nodded toward the Bronco. “They’re all pissed off at the truck.” I pointed down the street. “If we stay close to the houses, maybe they won’t notice us or maybe they won’t care.”
“Okay.” She said it with no emotion at all.
Teargas canisters spun through the air, landing among the rioters.
I looked up the street. The sound of the rhythmic pounding had to be nightsticks on riot shields. It was the police, down the street, close by.
The police were our chance.
I said, “Let’s go.”
Addy ran along beside me.