Do. It.
Hand shaking, John pointed the gun at Paul’s chest and pulled the trigger. Lilah screamed as the man went down. John caught a movement from the corner of his eye. Lilah had retrieved a gun from below the counter. Clenching his jaw, John pulled the trigger a second time and Lilah crumpled to the counter, blood pooling around the hole he had just put in her head.
It’s done. Nausea churned in his gut. Get out of here before you throw up.
He took a step toward the door when he froze, stunned. Paul was struggling to his knees. There was no blood on the man’s white shirt. Holes, but no blood. Understanding dawned. The man wore a vest.
What the fucking hell? John lifted his gun, aiming at the man’s forehead.
The shrill beep of the door opening had him glancing to the left.
‘Daddy!’
Oh hell. A little boy. The devil had never said anything about a kid.
Fucking hell. Now what? What do I do now?
What happened next, happened fast. Too fast. Paul lunged toward John, grabbing for the gun. They fought, and John tried to pry the man’s hand away.
I need a clear shot. Just one clear shot. He’d aimed at his target’s arm, just to shake him loose, when the little boy charged, fists balled, screaming, ‘Daddy!’
John fired and Paul cried out in pain. And the child went silent.
Horrified, John and Paul looked to the boy who lay on the floor in a bloody heap. The bullet had gone through Paul’s arm and into the boy. Into his chest. The child wasn’t breathing.
No. He’ll die. I’ve killed a little boy. Oh my God. No. No. ‘No,’ he gritted out.
Paul collapsed to the floor, shielding the boy with his own body. ‘Get away from him,’ he snarled. He checked the boy’s pulse, tried to stop the bleeding, his hands shaking and desperate. ‘Paulie,’ he shouted. ‘Paulie, it’s Daddy. I’m here. I’m gonna take care of you. You’re gonna be okay. Just . . . keep listening to me, son. Listen to my voice. You’re gonna be okay.’
John had taken a step forward before he realized it. To help. To save the boy.
Grief and rage had Paul lunging to his knees once again, reaching to knock John’s gun from his hand, still shielding his son with his body. ‘You sonofabitch. Get away from my son.’
Sam. John had to finish it, or both of their sons would die for nothing. Willing his hand to be steady, he lifted the gun, aimed at Paul’s head. And pulled the trigger. The man dropped to the floor, covering his son’s body with his own.
‘I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry.’ Staggering outside, John made it to his car, managed to get the key in the ignition. And tore out of the parking lot. As he did so, he could already hear sirens.
He needed to get away. Needed to report in, to get Sam back. Then . . . he didn’t care. If the cops caught him . . . he didn’t care. He just had to get Sam to safety. He pulled off the main road, took the back roads that he knew so well. He was on autopilot.
He was . . . numb. I killed that woman. I killed that man. I killed that little boy.
I killed a child. I. Killed. A child.
His throat closed. He couldn’t breathe. He’d saved his own son. And killed someone else’s. Sam would not approve. Sam would hate him more than ever. His son had strict notions of good and bad. Right and wrong. Sam would not have let his father kill to save his life.
So he can never know. I’ll never tell him.
He reached the meeting place, where Sam was to be delivered to him. John got out of the car and fell to his hands and knees, retching. He hung there, drawing one breath after another. None felt clean. None felt right. None felt . . . enough. He was choking to death. He was breathing but his lungs couldn’t get enough air.
I killed a child. An innocent child. I need to pay for that. But first, get Sam back. Then . . .
‘I’ll turn myself in,’ he whispered hoarsely. But even as he said the words in his mind he knew he would not. He’d been to prison twice already. He couldn’t go back there. He knew he would carry the shameful secret of what he’d just done to his grave.
He pushed himself to his feet, stumbled back to his car. Slid behind the wheel. With shaking hands, sent a text.
It’s done. I want my son back. Alive. Now. Or I’ll blow the whistle on you so fast your head will spin. He hit send, then pocketed his phone and leaned back, closing his eyes.
A few seconds later he heard the familiar buzz. A phone, receiving a text. But he hadn’t felt anything in his pocket. He’d started to sit up straighter when he heard an even more familiar sound. The click of a trigger being pulled.
He looked up. Saw the face in the mirror. The devil himself. The man with whom he’d made a deal a year ago.
I should have taken the drug conviction. I should have gone to jail.
It would have been his third offense. Three strikes. He would have been separated from Sam for years. Now it looks like I will be anyway. Forever.
Because the devil himself held a gun to the base of John’s skull. He was too tired to fight.
‘I did what you said,’ John whispered. ‘I did all that you said.’
‘I know. I appreciate it.’
‘What about my son?’
‘He’ll be released. He won’t remember anything about his ordeal.’
‘Good.’ Thank you was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back. There were no thanks to be given. A woman, a man, and a child were dead. He never would have pulled the trigger if the devil hadn’t pushed him.
The devil made me do it. He laughed out loud, the sound hysterical to his own ears. The last thing he saw was the devil in his rearview mirror, shaking his head.
Karen Rose, Baltimore [3.5] Broken Silence
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