the window in the opposite direction, slamming it hard on the edge of the frame.
Though he still didn't drop the gun, he didn't put up much of a struggle when George took it away from him.
George released his grip on the man's hair. His fingers stuck to it for a moment then pulled free. The man touched his mangled face, looked down at his mangled foot, and then spat some blood on George's shirt.
George cracked him on the skull with the barrel of the Tommy Gun.
A gun fired.
Red Hat turned around and staggered away, clutching at a gruesome stomach wound. Lou shot him in the back of the head.
George hit the hatless man once more with the gun. His eyeball bulged from its socket, just a bit, and then he dropped onto the bloody snow.
"You okay?" George asked Lou.
Lou looked confused for a moment, then nodded. "I think so. I'm not...I mean, I'm...things are kind of..."
George ignored him and peered at Ally, who was frantically scooting toward the other side of the van. "What about you? You okay?"
"I hissed to help you!" she insisted.
"I know."
She slid open the side door.
"C'mon, Ally, please don't make me chase you," said George.
She jumped out of the van. George reached down, with some effort, and picked up Black Hat's gun.
"Lou and I both have guns," he announced. "Don't make us shoot you. We can work this out together."
She ran.
"I hate my life," George muttered, as he went after her.
CHAPTER TEN
Meanwhile, Eighty Miles Away...
Shane Goldwyn looked up at the clock on the wall. 4:15. The same time that was displayed on his computer monitor and on his wristwatch. Forty-five more minutes to go. This day was never going to end.
"Any big plans for the weekend?" asked Patrick, his cubicle-mate.
"It's Tuesday," Shane informed him.
Patrick laughed. "Hey, I start thinking about my weekend plans on Monday morning. Sometimes Sunday night."
"I'll probably just work out," said Shane.
Patrick laughed again. His laugh was unbelievably grating, and he laughed all the time, whether or not anything amusing had been said or done.
"I hear that. Got to keep in shape, my man."
Another annoying habit of Patrick's: he'd say things in such a manner that Shane couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. Was he suggesting that Shane needed to work out more often? Shane was in perfectly good shape. Yeah, it sucked that at thirty-four he had the hairline of a fifty-year-old, but he was tall, lean, and far more physically desirable than a jackass like Patrick.
Okay, that wasn't fair. Patrick wasn't a jackass. Shane was just frustrated with the cubicle situation. A recent acquisition had brought in twelve new full-time employees, but there weren't enough desks for all of them. So Shane's supervisor had announced a new work-from-home program, where Shane would only have to come into the office on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays of even-numbered weeks and Tuesdays and Thursdays of odd-numbered weeks. He had a half-hour drive to work, so the saved commute time would really add up, not to mention that he could be a much more productive employee without the constant interruptions.
Then, management changed its mind, and they went with a "two to a cubicle" system.
He'd wanted to rip down the cubicle walls, and then tear open his supervisor's throat with his teeth. She sure wasn't sharing a desk with anybody.
Instead, he'd settled for a one-on-one meeting where he shared his grievance, and she said that she completely understood his disappointment, but that it turned out to not be a feasible arrangement, and perhaps they'd revisit the issue in a few months.
He'd clutched his fists so tightly that the nails dug into his palm, and then thanked her for taking the time to discuss it with him.
At least he had a job. Not everybody could say that, in this economy.
"Maybe I'll do a barbecue," said Patrick.
"In this weather?"
"Yeah, sure. I've got some brats in the fridge that'll go bad pretty soon, and
Though he still didn't drop the gun, he didn't put up much of a struggle when George took it away from him.
George released his grip on the man's hair. His fingers stuck to it for a moment then pulled free. The man touched his mangled face, looked down at his mangled foot, and then spat some blood on George's shirt.
George cracked him on the skull with the barrel of the Tommy Gun.
A gun fired.
Red Hat turned around and staggered away, clutching at a gruesome stomach wound. Lou shot him in the back of the head.
George hit the hatless man once more with the gun. His eyeball bulged from its socket, just a bit, and then he dropped onto the bloody snow.
"You okay?" George asked Lou.
Lou looked confused for a moment, then nodded. "I think so. I'm not...I mean, I'm...things are kind of..."
George ignored him and peered at Ally, who was frantically scooting toward the other side of the van. "What about you? You okay?"
"I hissed to help you!" she insisted.
"I know."
She slid open the side door.
"C'mon, Ally, please don't make me chase you," said George.
She jumped out of the van. George reached down, with some effort, and picked up Black Hat's gun.
"Lou and I both have guns," he announced. "Don't make us shoot you. We can work this out together."
She ran.
"I hate my life," George muttered, as he went after her.
CHAPTER TEN
Meanwhile, Eighty Miles Away...
Shane Goldwyn looked up at the clock on the wall. 4:15. The same time that was displayed on his computer monitor and on his wristwatch. Forty-five more minutes to go. This day was never going to end.
"Any big plans for the weekend?" asked Patrick, his cubicle-mate.
"It's Tuesday," Shane informed him.
Patrick laughed. "Hey, I start thinking about my weekend plans on Monday morning. Sometimes Sunday night."
"I'll probably just work out," said Shane.
Patrick laughed again. His laugh was unbelievably grating, and he laughed all the time, whether or not anything amusing had been said or done.
"I hear that. Got to keep in shape, my man."
Another annoying habit of Patrick's: he'd say things in such a manner that Shane couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. Was he suggesting that Shane needed to work out more often? Shane was in perfectly good shape. Yeah, it sucked that at thirty-four he had the hairline of a fifty-year-old, but he was tall, lean, and far more physically desirable than a jackass like Patrick.
Okay, that wasn't fair. Patrick wasn't a jackass. Shane was just frustrated with the cubicle situation. A recent acquisition had brought in twelve new full-time employees, but there weren't enough desks for all of them. So Shane's supervisor had announced a new work-from-home program, where Shane would only have to come into the office on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays of even-numbered weeks and Tuesdays and Thursdays of odd-numbered weeks. He had a half-hour drive to work, so the saved commute time would really add up, not to mention that he could be a much more productive employee without the constant interruptions.
Then, management changed its mind, and they went with a "two to a cubicle" system.
He'd wanted to rip down the cubicle walls, and then tear open his supervisor's throat with his teeth. She sure wasn't sharing a desk with anybody.
Instead, he'd settled for a one-on-one meeting where he shared his grievance, and she said that she completely understood his disappointment, but that it turned out to not be a feasible arrangement, and perhaps they'd revisit the issue in a few months.
He'd clutched his fists so tightly that the nails dug into his palm, and then thanked her for taking the time to discuss it with him.
At least he had a job. Not everybody could say that, in this economy.
"Maybe I'll do a barbecue," said Patrick.
"In this weather?"
"Yeah, sure. I've got some brats in the fridge that'll go bad pretty soon, and
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