Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
It’s the gunman’s dread.
“What do you want?” asks Kyle simply.
“Leave or I fucking shoot the kid!”
There is no possible way Kyle can know this, but he senses the gunman won’t pull the trigger. “Just tell us what you want,” says Kyle, taking a step inside, then another. “Say what you’re looking for. Is it something in this store? I’ll help you find it.”
The man squeezes tighter around Jeremy’s neck. “I fucking said back off!”
“H-Henry!” squeals Jeremy, choked by the gunman’s hold.
Kyle needs to be careful, but his senses keep telling him the man doesn’t want to kill anyone. Can he trust those senses so easily? Is there any chance his senses can be wrong?
“You’ve been looking at this store awhile now, right?” asks Kyle, remembering what Jeremy overheard from his dad, trying to use reason. “It’s something in here, isn’t it? Whatever it is you need? Let go of the kid, take what you want, go. No one’s gonna stop you. No one cares. This is all just … stuff.”
The man’s hand falters slightly.
Kyle notices. “Tell me what you’re looking for,” he says to the gunman, taking the slight wavering of his hand to be a sign. “I’ll help you find it. Just tell me.”
The man clenches his teeth, uncertain.
Just then, red and blue lights flash at Kyle from behind. Kyle peers over his shoulder, startled, as police lights blind him. Through the colors, the shape of the police chief emerges with his hand on his undrawn gun. “Hey!” he snaps at Kyle, annoyed more than threatened. His lackadaisical demeanor suggests he is entirely unaware of the situation inside, likely called here by a silent alarm in the store. “What’s going on? What do you think you’re doing, Henry? Step away from the—”
Before Kyle can answer, he’s wrenched inside from behind.
Reaching out, he grabs hold of nothing, falling backwards onto the floor of the pawnshop grunting as he lands. The doors slam shut ahead of him, the gunman shoving a table in front of the entrance, items falling to the floor with a loud clatter, while still gripping Jeremy by the head. “You!” he shouts at Kyle, gun pointing wildly. “On your feet! Fucking move!”
Jeremy, visibly shaking, teary-eyed yet not crying, trembles in the gunman’s grip. “S-Sir, I was … I-I just … p-p-please …”
“Shut the fuck up. You.” The gunman aims at Kyle, still on the floor. “Who are you? Answer me before I blow your fuckin’ head off.”
Kyle rights himself, blinking away the disorientation, and faces the man. He can still sense his dread like frigid air spilling from a walk-in freezer. This guy, he’s at the end of his rope. He just wants something, one specific thing, then he’ll be gone. It isn’t money. It’s something personal and important.
And the man is certain it is in this room.
How does Kyle possibly know any of this?
“I want to help,” says Kyle, slowly rising off the floor. “I—”
“Stop moving!” he screams, pointing his gun as Jeremy lets out a shout, shrinking against the man’s body, shaking.
There’s banging at the front glass doors. “Hey!” clips the police chief’s voice from outside. “Henry! Hey!”
Kyle maintains his composure, voice level. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, let’s find it and get this over with, okay?”
More banging at the front doors. “Henry!”
That’s when the gunman’s eyes sharpen. His sense of dread sharpens too, Kyle senses. It changes, growing from being ice-cold to white-hot, taking the shape of a needle ready to pierce.
That needle is an intention to defend himself to the death.
To kill.
Kyle is alarmed by the man’s sudden shift in emotion.
“Were you sent here to stop me?” whispers the man, barely audible, hands growing sweaty. His emotions, all over the place. Fear. Dread. Kill. “Is that what this is? A test? Is that who you are? Another fucking test? You playing with me right now?”
His emotions have become so radical, spiraling so quickly, blurring together and falling apart like a storm. Kyle can’t read any of them, like pages of a book flipping too fast.
The front of Jeremy’s pants are soaked, Kyle notices.
The poor teenager wet himself in fear.
Another bang of a fist at the front door, rattling the glass. “Hey! Henry! What’s going on in there? Open up! Now!”
“I wasn’t sent here by anyone,” says Kyle, determined to be calm. “That’s just one person outside, one irritable police chief who hates me. I didn’t call him. I can deal with him, okay?”
More banging. “Open up, Henry! I’m not kidding!”
“I’m just a friend of that guy,” says Kyle. “Jeremy, the guy you’ve got in your grip right now. I’m no one.”
“Even someone who’s no one can be deadly,” says the man. “I’m not anyone to you either, and I’ve got this kid’s life in my hands.” He aims again at Kyle. “And yours.”