Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (good books to read for beginners TXT) 📕

not sure about a person…” he looked up into my eyes, “but one of these animals — yeah.”

“Don’t go crazy. You’ve got five shots, that’s it. After that use it as a club if you have to. But don’t start anything. Follow my lead, got it?”

He nodded.

I reached for the door-popper on my belt and pushed the button. Outside I knew my back passenger’s side door, had just swung open. Max would be on his way.

“What’s that?” asked Tom.

“Reinforcements.”

The two of us padded up the creaking stairs. Several voices, very loud, were coming from the living room. I motioned to Tom that we were going to go through the kitchen, to the right, and try and take them by surprise. He looked scared, but more than that he looked mad.

I moved through the kitchen at top speed; saw the first man, it was Skull Shirt, sitting on a worn out, stained couch pushed up against the far wall from the living room window. Only he wasn’t wearing the same shirt. Instead he had on a Rolling Stones Lip Shirt, the tongue long and red. He had a bottle of beer raised to his lips when he saw me. He jerked up, his hand going for the butt of a gun sticking out of his waistband and I smashed the butt of my gun against the bottom of the bottle, smacking it into his teeth and lips. I followed it with a left hook that caught him just in front of his right ear, snapping his head to the side and putting him out.

My next target was lying on a love seat under the window, his head on one armrest, his feet propped up on the other. It was a punk I hadn’t seen before. He had red, curly hair and more piercings than a seamstress’ pincushion. He must have heard me hit Skull Shirt because he sat up and started to turn. I whapped him across the top of his curls with the boat anchor. He went instantly limp. I continued my swing and brought the muzzle of my gun to bear on the last person in the room. It was Baldy. He dropped his beer and the bottle bounced off the old, wood floor, foam gushing out the top. He reached for something in the back of his waistband.

I cocked back the hammer and put the big, black bore right between his eyes. “Don’t do that.” He stopped, frozen. “Get your hands up over your head.” He did.

I snatched a peek at Tom. He was pointing the Ruger at Baldy. Tom didn’t look scared anymore. Now he just looked mad. There were twin rosy circles dotting his pale cheeks and I could see a hint of clenched teeth between his thin lips.

“Where’s the girl?” I spoke real quiet so anyone upstairs wouldn’t hear. Baldy shook his head marginally. He looked back and forth between me and Tom.

I touched his skin with the muzzle. “Tell me where the girl is or I’ll splash your brains all over the wall.”

“He took her,” said Baldy. “She’s gone, man. She’s gone.”

I pushed the gun in, tilting his head back. “Where?” The word hissed through my teeth. My hand was shaking, I wanted so badly to pull the trigger. This scum helped in keeping a child hostage, maybe even raped her. My breathing was labored, shuddering in my chest. I had to get control, keep my emotions in check. But I didn’t want to. How much worse must it be for Tom? That helped me cool down, not a lot, but some.

Baldy closed his eyes as though he knew I was going to shoot him and couldn’t stand to watch. “I don’t know, man. I swear I don’t know. We were just watching this dude here. That’s all. I swear.”

The sound of the gun going off was so loud in the close quarters that it almost blanked my ears. A high pitched wail took the place of my hearing and nausea rolled through me with the power of a hard punch. Instinctively I looked at Tom, thinking he must have fired, but a second shot exploded to my left, and this one burned across the back of my neck and along my trapezes. I jerked to the side, my front sight coming in line with Pimple Face who was sporting an ancient looking Colt 1911, like we used back when I first enlisted in the Corps. Baldy shoved me hard in the chest with both hands and I went over backward, hitting the corner of the loveseat’s armrest on my kidney. I bounced off and fell to the floor. Two more rounds tore into the wall above my head, showering me with plaster. I fired one bullet at Pimples and heard him scream. Baldy kicked me hard in the hands and my Smith and Wesson went flying.

Tom ran behind Baldy and kept going until he disappeared around the corner. I heard him running up the stairs.

Baldy stepped close to me, pulling out a snub nosed revolver from his back waistband. “Not so tough now, smart guy?”

Before he could point it at me, I kicked him under the chin, pulled my belt-buckle knife out and jabbed it into his solar plexus. The blade was only as long as a pinky finger, but it went all the way in. I yanked it out in an arc that sliced his left inner thigh, opening his femoral artery, then looped it back over jamming it into his right inner thigh. I grabbed the cylinder of the revolver with my free hand, keeping it from being fired, jerked him forward so hard he doubled over, and plunged the small knife into his throat, slashing back and forth wickedly. The gun came free in my hand and I let his dying body drop to the floor.

Shoving his gun into my waistband, I found my .45 in the corner and turned just as two men clomped out of the hallway from