Free Stolen Lives by Jassy Mackenzie

Christ, the bastard had the gun out already, and now he was pushing Moffat aside, sprinting forward, and aiming it at him. He realised in an adrenaline-fuelled instant that it looked like an old police-issue z88 and leaped sideways, but caught his foot on the fallen stool.
    He crashed onto the tiled floor, whacking his head hard against the back wall. The z88 fired with a deafening bang, and the bullet smacked into the wall above him.
    Breathing hard, Garry crawled to the edge of the counter, his vision temporarily dulled, his mouth filled with a bitterness he would later realise was the acid tang of fear.
    He reached up and scrabbled around for his own gun, but his fingers couldn’t find it anywhere on the shelf.
    “Baas!” Moffat’s panicked voice distracted him. His assistant had grabbed the coloured guy from behind, pulling his gun arm out to the side, but the man was struggling hard. He twisted and turned his wrist, somehow managing to angle the z88’s barrel round towards Garry.
    Garry scrambled to his feet and hurled himself round the counter, but he was too slow; he had reacted too late. He was still a few feet away when his assailant, with hate in his eyes, pulled back on the trigger.
    Silence, apart from a dull-sounding click.
    The gun was empty or, more likely, it had misfired.
    Garry cannoned into the duo before the man had time to try his luck again. The force of his tackle slammed Moffat back against a shelf. Steel cooking pots clanged to the floor as Garry grabbed the gunman’s wrist, kneed him in the groin, smacked the edge of his other hand across his throat, and then wrestled the weapon away from him as the man sank to the ground, choking in pain, babbling what sounded, incredibly, like an apology.
    “Grab the tow rope over there, Moffat. Get his hands behind him and tie him to that wall bracket. Right, you bastard. Stand up and shut up.”
    Garry hauled the man up with shaking arms. This was their closest call yet, by far. He’d been thinking for months that he should install a metal detector at the door, but he’d never quite got round to doing it. Well, he didn’t need another wake-up call like this one. He’d phone the salesman this afternoon.
    Only when the offender was firmly secured to the wall bracket and Garry had gone back to the till to call the police did he realise that the man in the dark suit was nowhere to be seen.
    Perplexed, he checked the door leading to the storeroom, but it was locked. There was no other way out of the shop except through the main entrance, but how on earth had he managed to get through the locked security door?
    Could the man have leaned over the counter and pressed the door buzzer with the tip of his walking stick? He must have done. He must have buzzed the door open himself and calmly left the shop during the commotion.
    Garry was baffled. He’d looked the coloured man over carefully when he’d walked in. Moffat had checked him out, too. Neither of them had spotted the fact that a firearm was concealed under his shabby clothing. But that man—he’d walked past him just once on his way through the shop and picked up that he was carrying.
    How could anyone have such sharp instincts?
    On reflex, he checked the till’s contents. All the money was still there.
    It was only then, with a sudden giant clench of his heart, that he realised his gun was missing.
    Garry stared blankly at the empty spot on the shelf under the counter where he’d placed his weapon.
    It had been there, stashed safely out of sight, and now it was gone.
    The man in the suit had stolen it.

9
    “My life is falling apart. It’s all just falling apart.”
    Hunched over in the taxi, arms hugging her legs, Pamela looked pale and drained and suddenly a lot older than Jade had first suspected.
    The driver was twisted round in his seat, staring at her with a troubled expression. Jade didn’t know whether he was concerned by the unusual behaviour of his passengers, or simply worried that