Alive on Arrival: Chapter 35

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35

I stop.

I stop because maybe I cannot see a gun barrel or barrels aimed at my back, I can feel them. I’m gripping my shotgun with both hands. My sidearm is stored in my pant waist against my spine and concealed with my leather coat. If I need to lose the shotgun, at least I’ll still have the pistol. It means I can still kill Juarez. But I’ll need to kill these men first.

Inhaling a slow breath of the cool, moist, woodsy air, I slowly begin to about-face.

“Drop the shotgun, puta,” one of the gangbangers says.

“Perdona?” I say in my limited Spanish.

“I said lose the fucking shotgun,” the man repeats, his voice tense, angry.

“I can be really thick sometimes,” I say. “You mean this?”

Turning to face two, short, bald, and tattooed men, I produce a grin. But it is not a happy grin.

“I can’t drop this shotgun,” I go on. “How else will I kill you?”

It’s then I aim at the hip for the two men and trigger two shells. I expect to tear them in half, but instead, they are already running for cover.