Chapter 109
SCOTTY PINNED BARBIE and Olsen with his flashlight beam. He had no backup and absolutely no authority to be in this house. Barbie could shoot him and be well within her rights.
Still, Pretty Boy Olsen had a syringe full of murder and would certainly send Bryce Cooper into the tunnel of death if he had two minutes alone with him.
The bedside lamp cast a romantic glow, but it left corners of the room unlit. If Scotty was going to survive this ad hoc rescue, he needed more hands—one to hold the gun, two to cuff Olsen, and another to call the cops.
Scotty saw how the situation could go wild in a hurry.
He said loudly, “Olsen, lie facedown on the floor. Barbie, interlace your fingers behind your head and do not move, understand me?”
Olsen wasn’t buying it. He said to Barbie, “Who is this guy?”
“He’s in computers. I don’t remember his last name. His first name’s Chris.”
Olsen made a move toward Barbie, casual-like, but this was no good. Scotty dropped the light, put his gun squarely on Olsen, and held it with both hands.
“I said get down, Olsen. Do it quick or I will fire and I won’t miss.”
Olsen dropped the needle and kit, leaned forward with his hands out in front of him as though he were going to kneel. But it was a feint. He snatched Barbie from behind, held her in front of him like a shield. She let out a surprise squeal.
“Feel like taking a shot now, cowboy?” Olsen jeered. “Put down your gun and let’s talk. This is a big pie. It can be sliced three ways and everyone will be happy.”
A lot happened in the next few seconds.
Scotty lowered the barrel of his gun and squeezed the trigger; the bullet struck Olsen’s foot. Olsen screamed, and Barbie spun away from him. Scotty fired again and Olsen dropped to the ground, grabbed his knee, and howled even louder, “You killed me. You fucking killed me.”
Scotty said, “You, Barbie. Down on the floor. Don’t make me shoot you. I will do it.”
Holding the gun with his right hand, Scotty pulled his iPhone out of his shirt pocket, typed in 911, but before he could press Call, there was a commotion behind him.
He turned to see Bryce Cooper shrug off the bedding, hoist himself out of bed with a gun in his hand; must’ve been under his pillow. Bryce stumbled toward Barbie.
“Baby,” he called out. “Come to me, baby girl.” He turned to Scotty and said, “I’m Bryce and you’re a dead man.”
Cooper’s gun looked like an H&R .32 long-barrel revolver. Scotty couldn’t see if the safety was off. He knew that the guy was loopy from sleeping pills but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pull a trigger.
Scotty fired at the man’s hand, and the gun jumped into the air, landed on the carpet near Olsen. Olsen reached for the gun, then screamed as his fingers were flattened under Scotty’s foot.
Scotty scooped up Cooper’s gun and stuck it into the waistband of his jeans, and for the moment, the situation stabilized.
Scotty pressed the Call button on his phone, said to the 911 operator, “I need the police and a bus. Man down with two gunshot wounds. Yes, he’s breathing.”
He gave the dispatcher the pertinent details, then leaned against the inside of the bedroom door, kept his gun ready, and watched the show.