Free A Thousand Falling Crows by Larry D. Sweazy Page B

move one muscle, I‘ll pull this wire so hard it’ll cut your head plum off. You understand me, me’jo ?” Tom demanded. “Now drop the gun. You, too,” he said to the other one. The quiver in Tom’s voice was gone, replaced by anger-fueled strength. His eyes were black with unwavering certainty. He meant what he said.
    When Eddie didn’t immediately do as he was told, Tom pulled the wire a little tighter to prove he was serious. The shotgun clattered to the floor.
    Sonny had watched the whole exercise casually, not surprised by Tom Turnell’s ballet-like move. It was time for him to join in, while the fearful one’s attention was focused entirely on the situation Eddie had got himself into. He dropped his hand, bypassing the temptation to shake some blood into it, pulled the .45 out from its hiding place, and pointed it directly at the fearful one—who had gone from quietly nervous and afraid to visibly shaking with fear.
    â€œYou heard what the man said. Drop the gun, like your brother,” Sonny demanded, using his best authoritative Ranger-tone. He didn’t have a badge or a right arm anymore, but that didn’t mean he had abandoned everything that had carried him through his professional life over the last forty years—including the saying that followed every Ranger these days, “One riot, one Ranger.” The saying was attributed to Captain W. J. Walker of Company B at the turn of the century. Sonny had known Walker personally and the man seemed to enjoy the attribution more than he did the admittance of his origin of it. These boys didn’t know that he was an ex-Ranger, so the reputation that usually preceded itself in a tense situation and laid the ground work for an easy end wasn’t evident to either of them. The saying meant nothing to them. But it did to Sonny.
    â€œDon’t,” Eddie yelled to the other one. In just as swift a move, he rocketed his elbow upward, catching Tom just under the chin. The surprise hit propelled the man, breaking his hold on the cheese wire, sending it flying out of reach, allowing Eddie to lunge forward toward Sonny.
    Tom crashed into the wall and fell to the floor, as Eddie pushed into Sonny, knocking him off balance, causing him to tumble into the shelf, sending cans and boxes crashing to the floor. But Sonny remained standing, the gun still in his hand, though pointed at the floor.
    The fearful one stood frozen, his shotgun still pointed at the counter, even though Tom Turnell had fallen out of sight.
    Eddie dove for his shotgun, but the barrel had spun around so it was closest to him, instead of the butt of the weapon. He picked it up by the barrel, anxious to reach the trigger, just as Sonny regained his balance and pointed his .45 at the Mexican.
    Eddie swung the shotgun at Sonny like a club. The butt of it cracked against Sonny’s wrist, sending the pistol flying into the air. It bounced off the top shelf and vanished into the other aisle with a skid, metal against wood, striking another mark in the floor.
    Tom Turnell stood up, his nose bloodied by Eddie’s elbow, and wavered, like he was dizzy, but stepped forward—toward the fearful one.
    Thunder boomed overhead, rain continued to hammer against the roof, and a pair of headlights turned into the parking lot, offering a quick beacon of hope to Sonny. But both boys saw what he saw and whatever fear existed before was now elevated to a new, more desperate, level, like gas thrown on an already-raging fire.
    Eddie’s brother pulled one trigger of the shotgun. Tom was five feet from him and the shot hit him directly in the stomach, knocking him backward. But Tom remained standing, enraged, determined to put an end to the threat and the desecration of his store, once and for all. He gathered himself, pushed away the pain and surprise, and stepped forward again, his bare hands the only weapon he had.
    It was a double-barrel shotgun; there was