Mick staggered backwards and now the circle of people around them was widening, the regulars starting to hoot and holler. Colt may have cleaned out some of the dirtiness of the club, but it was too soon for a lot of the regulars to have realized this, and they were the kind who were spoiling for a fight.
“You little prick,” Uncle Mick said. He grinned and put a hand to his face, where his bottom lip was bleeding. “You fucking little pussy. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“What I should have done years ago,” Colt said and he was rolling up his sleeves now, and I was yelling his name, but the catcalls of the crowd around us had started to get louder, the men jeering and hollering, and there was no way Colt could hear me.
Colt rushed at his uncle and then I was really screaming, screaming, screaming his name and begging him to stop, but it was swallowed up in the sounds of the crowd.
And then the two of them were fighting, rolling over each other on the floor, the two of them punching and kicking, before springing back to their feet. Colt threw Mick into a table and Mick stood up, stumbling, and then suddenly, there was a glint of something metal in Mick’s hand.
A gun.
He smiled and licked his lip and I saw the murderous glint in his eye.
He was going to kill him.
I screamed Colt’s name again and tried to rush toward him, but someone grabbed me from behind, one of the men, probably thinking they were protecting me from getting hurt, not realizing that the only thing that could hurt me more than a gunshot was someone hurting Colt.
“Yeah,” Mick said, cocking the trigger. “You little shit, you think you’re a big man now, you think you’re so fucking smart.” He spit onto the ground, his spittle black and tinged with blood.
The crowd had quieted a bit now, and I was still screaming, but Colt was in his own world, his own head, and the crowd was retreating, everyone running for the exits and someone was pulling me with them.
And then, suddenly, Colt was rushing at his uncle and the gun went off, a flash bang noise that reverberated through the room and I was screaming and running toward him, but those arms were around me, and I couldn’t get to him.
It was like I was in a dream, one of those dreams where you’re trying to do something and you can’t because you’re stuck underwater or you’re trying to call 911 and you can’t remember the number, only this was so much worse because it was so real, every color vivid, every feeling so sharp that it was impossible to pretend it was a dream.
“Colt!” I screamed and I was trying to get to him, and I could see blood on the floor, but I couldn’t tell if it was Mick’s or Colt’s.
The crowd had completely dispersed into pandemonium now, and those hands were still around me, pulling me to the exit, but I could see flashes of Colt and his uncle tangled together, their limbs flying as they wrestled on the ground. The gun was still in Mick’s hand, and I saw Colt hit his wrist and the gun skittered to the ground.
Colt had him pinned now, and he was on top of him, and he began to hit him, to pound his face, punch after punch.
“Colt!” I was screaming again, screaming his name, but my ears were ringing so loudly that I wasn’t sure if I was even yelling or if my screams were only in my own mind.
And then I remembered.
My necklace.
It was a direct link to the FBI.
I leaned down and spoke into it.
“Please!” I begged. “Caleb, please, you have to come, please! There’s a gun, please, you need to come! Hurry!”
And then I remembered something else – the trick I’d learned from countless years in foster care, the one thing that was guaranteed to hurt a man bigger than you if you got the opportunity to do it.
Kick him in the balls.
I turned around and kicked the man holding me right in the balls.
“Oof!” he groaned and fell to the floor and I whispered a silent apology as I broke free and ran toward Colt.
When I got to him, he was all alone, his uncle laying on the floor as Colt pounded his face.
“You son of a bitch,” Colt spat as he punched him. “You son of a bitch, I was a child, I was just a kid, you fucking sick fuck.”
“Colt,” I said, and I was grabbing his arm, but Colt was in a zone, his eyes glassy, and I knew where he was, because I’d been there myself. He was remembering all the things his uncle had done to him, all the times his uncle had beat him.
My eyes filled with tears as I tried to pull him off, but I couldn’t. He was too big, too strong.
Finally, he took a break, eyes wild as his gaze fell on the gun that was sitting on the floor.
He lunged for it, his eyes filled with hate as he pointed the gun at his uncle.
“Colt,” I pleaded. “Jesus, Colt, no.” I was crying now, the tears sliding down my face. The room smelled like smoke and alcohol and tobacco, and it was so intense I felt like gunpowder was entering my skin through my pores.
“Colt,” I whispered. “Please…”
I don’t know why, maybe it was the change in my tone, but he turned to look at me.