Page 113 of Cash

Maybe he could just throw the gun at Ramp.

Cash went flying when Brick dumped the drawer he’d stashed the money from Jules in, and he called out, “I don’t suppose you’d agree to leave for fifteen hundred dollars?”

Ramp’s reply was to fire again.

Brick groaned in frustration.

There was nowhere else for him to check. He didn’t know how long the cabinet would stop Ramp from getting in here, and eventually one of Ramp’s shots might make it through the cheap particle board desk Brick was currently hiding behind.

His only hope was that the alarm company was busy dispatching the police or that Jules and Erasmus would miraculously return early from their meeting.

Ramp couldn’t have brought that much ammo, and surely the sound of gunfire was hurrying the police along?

A bullet whizzed through the desk and right by Brick’s shoulder.

“Fuck!” Brick flinched, dropping the bullets he’d been holding as he tried to duck lower. The ammo rolled across the floor all around him, and Brick ended up flat on his back and staring at the underside of the desk.

Where a key was taped, completely hidden and out of sight.

“Oh, fuck me!” Brick snatched the key and quickly removed the trigger lock from the gun. He opened the cylinder and then fumbled around the floor for the bullets.

He managed to find five and loaded as quickly as he could with his fingers shaking violently from the waves of adrenaline possessing him. He closed the cylinder and then stared at the loaded gun in his hand, his heart about to explode in his chest.

It was time.

Brick pulled himself into a crouching position, peeking around the side of his desk. He could see Ramp through the broken glass of the doors, and he had a clear view of Ramp’s side, including his outstretched arm that was holding the gun.

Brick took a deep breath, aimed, and fired.

Ramp shouted in pain.

Brick fired again.

Ramp howled louder, and he vanished out of sight.

Panting hoarsely, Brick tried to decide what to do. Ramp was retreating, and although Brick had zero desire to chase after him and gun him down, he desperately wanted him to get the fuck out of his house. He remained where he was, gun at the ready, his eyes unblinking and focused on the broken window for any sign of Ramp coming back.

Minutes crawled by, each one stretching for an eternity longer than the last, before Brick heard sirens, and he nearly sobbed. It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard, and he finally lowered the gun. He slumped against the side of the desk, his body failing as it crashed from the brutal onslaught of adrenaline and panic it had just endured.

“Mr. Brixton!” someone shouted. “Raleigh PD! Detective Cutter! Where are you?”

“In here!” Brick stumbled to his feet on wobbling legs, and he set the gun on his desk. He cautiously approached the cabinet, standing behind it and peering around to make sure this wasn’t some sort of trick. “Detective? Is that really you?”

“Yes!” Cutter appeared at the door, his weapon drawn but pointed at the floor. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay! Where the fuck is Ramp?”

“On his way to Rex in an ambulance. You shoot him?”

“He tried to shoot me first!” Brick argued furiously.

“Hey, hey, calm down. Is there anyone else in the house?”

“No, it was just me and—” Brick gasped. “Junior! Where is he? Is he hurt?”

“He’s outside currently cussing out a paramedic.” Cutter offered a tight smile.

“Wait, what?” Brick moved the cabinet so he could open the door. “But I saw him get shot!”

---