Page 22 of Devious Gambit

I waited until they got to my door to see what they were going to do next. Whoever it was couldn’t get in, so I think I was fine. Doubts flooded into my mind. Even though the door was just as rickety and old as the stairs, it was secured with three locks and a chain. I should be fine, if I just pretended I hadn’t noticed them.

I heard the distinctive squeaking sound of the doorknob turning, followed by rattling as they tried to push the door open. I reached for the second drawer in the bedside table and quietly pulled it open. Inside lay Delores, the little pocket pistol Marjorie lent me for protection. We’d only practiced target shooting a couple of times, and that was enough to know that I’m a really poor shot. I missed every time. That’s when Marjorie said, just wave the pistol in their faces to scare them off.

Whoever was tugging on the door handle stopped, but I could still sense them standing there. I wasn’t comfortable with the pistol in my trembling hand, and the only thing between me and whoever was outside, was a wooden door. And that wasn’t enough.

I heard the creak of a stair under their weight and it seemed they were stepping back down. I lowered the pistol when silence followed, and exhaled. I didn’t catch a shadow walking past the window, maybe I missed it.

As it turned out, I was wrong.

A few seconds later, my life took a drastic turn.

One powerful kick and the door flew open and a huge man wearing a black balaclava stood in my apartment.

“Get out!” I screamed.

“I don’t think so,” he sang, like it was a game. “I’m going to make sure you keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“I’ve got a gun and I know how to use it.”

He laughed evilly. “Shoot me then, you fucking little nark.”

“I swear I haven’t spoken to the police.”

“Someone has. So if it’s not you, who would it be?”

He stepped towards me and I screamed again. “Don’t come near me or I’ll shoot.”

“Shoot me then you fucking bitch! Put me out of my fucking misery!” In two strides, he was in my face and I pulled the trigger. He was so close it was hard to miss. He lurched forward, clutching at his chest and groaned in pain. Scarlett poured from his chest and dripped through the fingers of his clutching hand. “You shot me you fucking bitch!”

I scurried to the other side of the bed, which was wedged into the corner, and kept the pistol pointed at him. I felt so useless against that monster of a man. I had no idea how many bullets were in the pistol and where to go to get some more. Even if I had more, I didn’t even know how to load them.

Just when I thought he was going to lunge at me again, he dropped to his knees. He was having difficulty breathing and removed the balaclava from his head. Adam Sweeney, no surprises there. However, wherever Sweeney was, his friend was likely nearby.

Sweeney swayed on his knees, reaching out to me with his bloody hand, muttering something that I failed to understand. My guess was he was asking me to call an ambulance. My phone was on the bedside table and there was no way in hell, I was moving closer to him to get it.

“Call a…” he fell forward onto the bed fighting against pain or death. He gurgled for a few seconds, exhaled and turned quiet.

I crouched in the corner terrified, waiting for him to move, but he didn’t, not even a flinch or a quiver.

After several moments, I slid closer to him and prodded him with my foot. Nothing. He was still, lifeless, and bleeding all over my bed.

“What do I do? What do I do?”

Carefully, I stood up and galloped past his body hunched over my bed. The first person that came to mind to help me was Marjorie. It might’ve been smarter to call the police, but I was scared and not thinking straight.

It took a good 3 minutes before Marjorie came to the window. I was knocking on her door, and after no reply, I went to her bedroom window.

“What in God’s name…”

“Something’s happened,” I sobbed, holding up the pistol.

“Oh no, sweetie. Let me get my dressing gown on and I’ll meet you out front.”

“Is this the fool that tormented you the other night?” she asked, peering at his face pressing against the duvet.

“Yes.”

“How many times did you shoot him?”

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