Page 50 of Just Friends

Duane Hartwell, his greasy hair hanging into his eyes, stain-smeared khakis, and a dirty wife beater shirt, stood next to a hole in the floor holding a shotgun pointed at them.Shit…

“Hartwell, put down the gun,” he said.

Agent Willem forced her way between him and door frame, gun drawn.

“Don’t fire that in here,” Weasel whispered to her.

“I’m not putting shit down, ya pig,” Hartwell responded, snickering. The maniacal tone to his voice made Weasel suspect he was either high or out of his mind after inhaling these fumes while hiding.

“You’re gonna blow yourself up if you shoot that in here,” he said, figuring he’d try and appeal to the part of Duane Hartwell that didn’t want to die today. It could be a suicide by cop mission, but he didn’t get that sense from the ringleader. If he were high, then all bets were off. And if any of them fired a weapon, it’d ignite the ether.

“You think you’re so smart, because you were seventeen and got off lucky. Some of us didn’t get lucky…”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Agent Willem whispered.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” he told Duane; ignoring Willem. “I worked my ass off to turn my life around.”

“You know each other?”

“I didn’t work?” he spat. “You think you’re all better than me? Well, fuck you.” Duane looked at Bonnie. “Yeah we do; your little golden-boy here grew up as nothing but a punk-criminal.”

“No, I’m not better than you. You own a business.” And cook meth behind that tacky nuisance. But he was trying to get everyone out alive. Hey, he had a filter after all. “Come on, man. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Oh no… I ain’t going anywhere. Soon as I step out there, you’re gonna beat the shit outta me.”

“We don’t beat up people,” Bonnie said.

Duane waived the gun around laughing. “Well, sweetheart, I know you don’t. You’re a fine lookin’ little woman.” He scanned Agent Willem up and down. Weasel imagined Willem would make Duane’s balls into a keychain if she had the opportunity.

“Come on, Duane. Let’s not do this,” Weasel said.

“Don’t be tryin’ to get all buddy-buddy now; you ain’t spoke to me in years.”

“All right, but you’re giving up your negotiating power.”

“What?”

“Come out peacefully for a reduced sentence.” It’d never happen, but he wasn’t beyond lying his ass off to get Duane to surrender.

“Yes,” Agent Willem agreed. “Judges look more favorably on those who cooperate.”

“I didn’t know what was going on out here, I promise.”

Weasel nodded. “All right then, let’s go tell the judge and get this straightened out.”

Hartwell paced and Weasel struggled to decide if reaching him and wrestling the gun away was possible, but if it went off… His brain throbbed. They needed to clear everybody from this place. A loud blast sent shock waves through them, and Hartwell lurched sideways. It took Weasel a second to register that a sniper rifle had discharged. The world slowed as Hartwell swung his weapon toward them with the distinct noise of a shotgun ratcheting; a barrage of popping filled the air. Weasel turned, shoving Willem off of the narrow landing, sending the woman flying.

Weasel came to covering the Agent’s body with his, surrounded by a muffled blur, and hot fragments of debris raining down from the sky, pelting him. How long had he been out? With the blinding heat radiating behind them, he feared they’d blown to the sun, but no, still on the ground. The meth lab exploded. He had to move them farther from the flames.

Willem shifted under him, and he crawled off of her, wanting to ask if she was okay, but the roar through his skull stopped him. She couldn’t hear him even if he spoke.

Large hands grabbed under his armpits, and his vision focused as they lifted him to his feet; flanked by two men in hazmat suits and self-contained breathing apparatus. Rushing around him, everyone wore protective gear. He tried to turn to see the shed, but they were dragging him in the opposite direction. With the commotion and the flashing lights, there should be more noise, but only a slight hum hit his ears.

The fire department was on standby, and now every fire truck in the county stood before him, crowding the small lot surrounding Shakers. The men led him to where two firetrucks parked parallel to one another, and more people in protective gear were scurrying about setting up make-shift showers. It was about to get cold. Weasel was more than aware of the decontamination process. He’d gone through the training and was about to lose his clothes and freeze his bits off.

The men were looking at him like they were talking, but between the respirators blocking their mouth and the ringing in his ears, he was left shaking his head.

“I can’t hear a thing,” he said, knowing he was yelling. A woman stepped forward and motioned for him to hand her his badge, gun, and anything else in his pockets. She pointed to a name tag on a plastic zip top bag. “Detective Harlan Anderson,” he yelled. He handed over his stuff and hated to separate from his badge and gun, but too nauseous to complain.

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