He collapsed to the ground stiffly.
Bob raised himself up slowly. His left side had gone numb around his ribs but the burns, higher up, hurt like the devil. Every joint in his body ached.
He stumbled over to Vern. He was laying on one side, but his eyes were flitting about. He’s breathing. He just can’t move.
Bob heard the scratch of a foot in dirt behind him. He ducked low, trying to ignore the pain as he turned, and the shovel swung over his head, the man swinging it staggering to one side from poor balance.
Bob drove his right fist upwards, into the man’s groin, punching past the point of contact, trying to drive his knuckles an inch back. It was instinct, but it caught Terry square in the testicles. The other guard dropped the shovel and staggered back a foot, his face turning white, his hands drifting to cover his groin. He dropped to his two knees and vomited.
Bob lurched forward, throwing a hard right cross, his fist meeting Terry’s chin side-on, the attacker’s legs gone. He collapsed beside the puddle of vomit.
The pistol lay a few feet past Vern. Bob limped over to it cautiously, trying to regulate his breathing by alternating between nose and mouth. The more gently he could breathe, he knew, the less the fractured ribs would hurt.
He retrieved the pistol and made his way back over to Terry Perrine, who was waking up. He looked up at Bob through haggard eyes. “My nuts. I… I think you crushed my nuts.”
Bob looked him over. The guard had a bandage wrapped around his left forearm and bicep. A square adhesive bandage covered much of his right collarbone, another covering half of his right forearm. “What… what the hell happened to you?” Bob asked, trying not to wince.
Terry was panting slightly from the pain. “Warding off the dog. Merry’s dog. Made me…” He looked at the dirt, humiliated. “Made me get in the dog pit.”
“He made you…” Bob squinted at him. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
“And he’s a friend of yours?”
Terry stared at the dirt again, ashamed. “Yeah. I mean… Nah, not really. He’s my boss.”
“You’re scared shitless of him.”
Terry nodded vigorously.
Bob nodded toward Vern. “And him?”
Terry nodded again. “Yeah.”
Jesus H, the poor bastard. I mean, maybe he’s terrible. Probably. But…
Desperate people could do terrible things, Bob knew. He gestured with the pistol towards Vern. “Take off your belt, use it to tie his wrists. Make it tight… and I will check. Don’t piss me off at any juncture, or you’ll hate me even more than the pair of them, for whatever brief time you’re still breathing.”
Terry struggled to his feet, one hand cupping his swollen testes. He shuffled over to Vern and took off his belt. An alarmed expression crossed his face. “Is he…”
“Nope. If you look at his eyes, you’ll notice they’re still moving and, I’d say, have an angry edge to them.”
“Yeah,” Terry said balefully. “Yeah, that’s about right. “
“Your belt first, his wrists behind his back. What’s your name again?”
“Terry. Terry Perrine. Mister, I got a wife and two daughters…”
“Shut up. Do this right and I won’t have to shoot you, Terry Perrine. Fuck this up even a little bit, and you’ll never see that wife and kids again. Are we clear?”
“Uh huh, yeah.” He finished tying his associate up. “Now what?”
“Your friends, they left in a truck a while ago. When are they back?”
Terry looked at his watch. “Be gone another two hours, as least.”
“Good. I figure they keep plenty of valuables in that house, probably some meth if they’re tight with Merry, probably some money, some trinkets and such. First, you’re going to give me your phone, so you don’t get tempted to scurry back to your abusers. Then you’re going to take all that shit and load up the other car, and you’re going to drive home. You’re going to get your wife and kids, and you’re going to keep driving. When you run out of gas, get some more… and keep driving. You go until Bakersfield is a memory… and that way I don’t have to kill you. You understand me?”
Terry was nodding gently but his eyes danced around as if he was confused. “I never lived nowhere else…”
“Time to reinvent yourself. Phone! Toss it over.”
Terry complied.
“Now go! Hurts talking right now!” Bob waved the pistol toward the doors.
Terry skittered towards the doors. As he reached them, he stopped and looked back. “They’ll come back and kill you though…” he said.
“Not your problem. Go,” Bob said, waving the pistol again.
Maybe that’s why you hurt all over. Maybe when you lost your edge, you lost whatever it is that keeps the pain down, the adrenaline flowing, Bob thought as he watched Terry head towards the house.
But he was tired of killing people. That was reserved for cases with no choice. He turned his attention back to Vern. Speaking of which…
He didn’t have to kill a man to take him out of the game, Bob knew. And Vern represented an opportunity.
It was time to find out just how much his brother loved him.
