Free The Storm Giants by Pearce Hansen

obvious pain.
    “Thanks for penciling me in, assholes,” Norm said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m gut shot here.”
    Everett dropped to one knee next to Norm.
    “Show the wound ,” Everett said, and Norm fanned his hands out as if shrugging.
    Everett studied the hole in Norm’s shirt without touching it. “Blood’s red, stain’s spreading slowly. If it had nicked an artery the blood would be black, and coming a gusher.”
    Everett looked at Norm’s back and examined the exit wound. “Through and through, nice and clean. Round didn’t hit bone and mushroom, looks like full metal jacket. You’re not slurring or rolling your eyes so it’s unlikely any major internal stuff was involved. You got lucky.”
    Norm sweated and gasped as he clutched his gunshot wound, and looked at Everett even more strangely than his condition warranted. Rick looked at Everett oddly as well. They were dismayed by the current situation even if he wasn’t, but that was their problem.
    Everett asked, “Where’s that hip flask?”
    Rick handed over the flask. Everett squatted next to Norm and proffered it. Norm shook his head.
    Everett gestured with the flask again, insisting. “It’ll thin your blood and won’t help if you’ve got intestinal lacerations, but you and Rick are a couple of idiots who had themselves a bona fide drunken hunting accident. Your wound’s through and through. They can doubt all they want but they won’t be able to disprove your story by forensics. You’ll take this drink Norm.”
    Everett tipped the flask for him, and Norm took a few unenthusiastic swallows.
    “For Kerri and Raymond,” Norm said when he was done.
    Everett sniffed Norm’s breath and was satisfied. Everett stood and handed the flask to Rick, who started swilling at it like he didn’t need to be asked twice.
    “F ire off a few rounds so your piece is dirty,” Everett said, and Rick looked at the frightened driver girl.
    Everett shook his head. “I have use for her.”
    Rick worked the bolt and chambered and fired one round after another, the butt planted against his hip as he fired the Weatherby 30.06 straight into the air. With each round he fired, Rick stared hard at the Widow’s driver. With each round Rick fired, the girl flinched. She was living proof there was a downside to having too much imagination.
    When Rick was done shooting he slung both his and Norm’s rifles over his shoulder and squatted. Norm howled as Rick tossed him over his shoulder in an unceremonious fireman’s carry and stood with a grunt.
    “Remember ,” Everett said as Rick started laboriously picking his way down the ridge. “You’re a couple of drunken fools; you really screwed the pooch. You’re oh so embarrassed you shot Rick. Keep the story simple – it’ll fly.”
    Norm’s head reared up from against his brother’s back to goggle moon faced until they hit a curve in the trail and were gone.
    “What was the use for you?” Everett asked the Widow’s driver. “What was it?”
    He fumbled for the line glimpsed during the earlier excitement. “You’ve got a cellie to call the Widow. Give it.”
    She flashed her eyes at her friend’s corpse. Everett waved her ahead with the sawed off and shouldered the DeLisle as he followed. He fished the cell phone from the shooter’s blood stained buck shot shredded breast pocket. There was only one entry on speed dial.
    S omeone picked up on the first ring, but there was silence at the other end. “The Widow,” he said.
    H er voice came from the digital void: “Everett.”
    “Your shooter is dead . No choice. He threw down. You going to ask about your other asset?” Everett asked, staring at the Widow’s driver, who avoided his gaze.
    “I assume there is a purpose to this call , but if so I do not see it,” the Widow said. “The situation is the same. I have the goods on you, and I know where your precious family is at. You are mine.”
    “No , it’s not the same,” Everett said. “I