Page 2 of Wild Moon

Paxton forces herself to let go of my arm and sorta-crouches behind our cart, then nods.

I told her to wait for me to drag the guy out before calling just in case this turns out to be a misunderstanding. Don’t want to invoke the cops on a man who’s just having an emotional crisis. Then again, I’m ninety-five percent sure he’s got a gun, and this is about to turn into a horror show.

I fast walk down the open space between the shopping aisles and the register, heading toward the guy but not directly at him while making it look like I’m focused on the non-food section in the far corner and totally unaware of his existence. He looks at me, but my ‘rushing to grab something I forgot’ act appears to work. The man disregards me in a second, once more watching the open area between aisles and registers.

My course toward the non-food area passes about ten feet from the guy. At the point where one more step would begin to move me away from him, I take advantage of my inhuman speed and rush him, moving so fast he doesn’t even react to my sudden swerve until I’ve got my arm around him like I’m meeting an old friend.

My grip pins his right arm—and the rifle concealed under his coat—to his side. Now that I’m in contact with the guy, any doubt whatsoever about him having a weapon is gone. The hard, metal object is obvious to the touch. I don’t want him raising it… and I don’t want him in the store. At this point, it’s clear he’s a real threat and the cops should be involved, so I haul him off his feet like I’m the store manager repositioning a mannequin.

Hopefully, Paxton is watching me, sees this, and is already calling 911.

The sheer absurdity of a woman my size picking him up so casually appears to short-circuit his brain. He doesn’t say or do anything for a few seconds as I hurry him toward the store exit. Right when we’re in that space between the inner and outer doors—Anthony used to call it an ‘airlock’—the guy finally freaks out, forcing me to wrap my other arm around him to hold on.

Since his shouting will certainly draw attention, I stop holding him so high off the ground that it’s obvious I’m carrying him. Can’t let his shoes touch pavement, though. I don’t weigh much. If this guy gets any leverage, he can wrench me off my feet pretty easily. The nice thing about grocery store doors—they’re self-opening, so I don’t need a free hand. Two large aluminum-and-glass panels slide obligingly out of my way as I drag the screaming, flailing guy out onto the concrete tarmac between the storefront and the parking lot.

All the people out there stop short, staring at us.

A couple small kids make curious faces. Seeing children so close spikes my anxiety through the ceiling. Neither I nor any of the people watching me haul this guy outside have the time to speak before the loudbangof his rifle firing sets off a wave of panicked screaming.

I’m vaguely aware of a high-pitchedzingas the bullet strikes pavement a few inches in front of us and ricochets pretty much vertically into the air.

Not wanting to give the dude the chance to squeeze off another round that could possibly hit someone, I fling him onto his face, drop a knee on the middle of his back, and rip most of the right half of his coat away to expose an AK-47 rifle with a collapsed metal stock, as well as a handgun on his belt.

Perhaps I’d been a bit less than gentle introducing him to the ground. Blood trickles from his lips and he’s stammering nonsense in a dazed tone of voice. He’s too stunned to pull the trigger again in the few seconds it takes me to shred the coat and yank the weapon out of his grasp. After sliding the rifle across the parking lot well out of his reach, I yank the handgun from the holster as well, toss it aside, then pin his right arm against his back while searching him for more surprises.

Nothing but ammo. He’s got five AK mags taped to his back and seven spares for the handgun on the belt. Good grief, this guy was planning for a siege.

Since he fired a shot and there are now two very obvious firearms in view, I’m sure Paxton isn’t the only person on the phone with 911. The screaming has made its way into the store. People inside sound as if they’re hitting the deck and/or searching for hiding places.

“Get off me!” yells the guy, struggling to throw me to one side.

It’s less that he’s not strong enough to move me—he is—but between the leverage of being on his back and a little pain compliance wrist hold, he’s not having much luck. This, right here, isn’t anything supernatural. Pure technique. It only takes a little pressure in the right places to cause pain sufficient to make a guy stop struggling.

“You have the right to remain silent,” I deadpan. “Please do so.”

He lets out a loud ‘argh!’ scream while straining to push himself out from under me. A little more pressure on his arm shifts his raging roar to a wail of pain, and he stops moving. Sometimes, I really do miss having the domination mental powers of a blood vampire. Would be nice to just command this guy to sit still and shut up. Still, the whole ‘blood’ thing is just so icky. I hated feeling like a monster.

Absentmindedly, I slide my tongue along my upper teeth. My perfectly human-likenormalteeth.

It doesn’t take too long before the distant wails of sirens become audible.

The sound gives the guy a second wind. While screaming at me for ‘ruining everything,’ he thrashes to get away as if afraid the cops will simply execute him as soon as they arrive. Or, well…notexecute him. I think this guy’s plan was to commit suicide by cop. Whether or not he had anyone specific in mind to kill other than himself or merely wanted to hurt as many people as possible on his way out, I don’t know.

It takes enough of my concentration to keep holding the guy down that the police seem to appear in an instant around us. Like one second, distant sirens, I blink, and now there are ten uniformed officers surrounding us. Not knowing what the heck is going on here, they naturally start off by pointing their guns at me.

“This guy’s the shooter,” I yell. “He’s all yours.”

After a few tense seconds, the cops decide to creep closer.

A few bystanders chime in to confirm the guy underneath me had the weapon, and I tackled him. One cop heads for the AK and the handgun. The others order the guy to stop resisting. He doesn’t. Big surprise.

“He wants to suicide by cop,” I yell. “Not gonna be compliant.”

The guy hesitates for an instant, evidently shocked I know this.

Since I’m already on top of the situation—literally—I help the officers wrestle the guy into handcuffs. They secure his legs as well, then put an anti-bite mask over his head. I back off and pretend to catch my breath while the cops haul him over to one of several patrol cars.

And now the fun begins…

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