Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I have no idea how many rounds have been fired between them, but they’re not being conservative, so it has to be only a matter of time before…
Yes. I can see the oke behind the van’s steering wheel now pulling urgently at the trigger of his weapon to no avail. He’s out.
Brilliant! All right, Danny my bru, take one clean shot at the wheel of the van and…
Maak jy fokken grap, man!
Danny’s pistol appears to also have run dry.
Just when I think I could not possibly become more annoyed by things that do not go as I would like, new disappointments find their way into the spotlight of the divine comedy of my life.
The van is hammering toward Danny, and while it would seem to most that the reasonable thing to do would be to turn away and avoid being pannekoeked by the three-ton death machine racing toward you, most are not Daniel Fortnight.
He instead engages in a game of chicken with the van.
Oh, Danny. My sweet, sweet Danny. Don’t ever change.
While lying here, holding my wound, and watching this all unfold feels like it might be extremely interesting, I decide instead that we’ve had enough fun for one day and it’s time to end this.
I have the good fortune to have acquired a small arsenal in my pockets, so I reach into the soft cashmere, which is complemented by an equally soft satin/silk lining, and withdraw not one, but two weapons formerly possessed by the cohorts of the driver of the all-black vehicle containing Christine and barreling at Danny.
I take aim at the tires, preparing to complete the task Danny put me to some moments ago, but then I notice something.
The driver has not yet raised his window back into the closed position.
As my thoroughness is what I’m famous for, I keep the arm in which I have been shot flat on the ground, as raising it is quite painful, aiming for the front tire, and lift the other arm to train that shot at the head of the oke captaining the van.
He’s just about upon Danny now, and Danny, rather than making any attempt whatsoever to avoid being splattered across the front, speeds up. Racing hard toward what cannot possibly be a favorable conclusion.
I have only one chance at this. So I’d better make it count. As they say.
All right, van den Berg. Breathe. Just like Christine has talked about. Just breathe and focus and…
When you’re ready…
Take…
Your…
Shot.
Well, that went almost like I had hoped.
CHRISTINE
The sound of the tire exploding echoes like a bomb going off inside the back of the van. And then I’m thrown, smashed, heaved against the wall as it tips onto its side.
I still can’t see anything and I drop my phone, which still has the flashlight on, and the streaky beams it sends cascading around in the dark comes across like I’m suddenly at the world’s shittiest nightclub.
My head smacks against the metal again, harder this time, and now I get another flash. One that isn’t from the light on my phone. A memory. A face. Someone familiar and strange at the same time. A man.
He has a long scar down the side of his cheek. I’ve never seen him before. Or I have, but…
Who is he?
My head hurts.
DANNY
As the tire on the van blows and the thing flips over on its side, I swerve to avoid it careening into me and wind up skidding out myself.
Throwing my arms around my head to act as a miserable excuse for a helmet, I roll until I come to a stop about fifteen feet away from where the van has slid to a stop.
I don’t think I’ve broken anything, but I know I’m going to be feeling it tomorrow. But, right now, the adrenaline has me going and I leap to my feet, run over to the van, look in the driver’s side window, and see that my old friend Cillian is dead. Alec’s bullet went right through his temple and imbedded itself in his brain.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Not so much because he’s gone, but just because in the state I find myself, I don’t think I’d do great in a smackdown with a rocket-fisted bare-knuckle brawler. And at the same time I’m a little disappointed that I won’t get to find out just how much punch old Cillian packed. Which is an unusual-as-balls thought.
There’s definitely something wrong with me.
Christine…
I stumble to the back of the toppled van, grab the handle on the rear door, and wrench it open. It swings heavy to the ground with a thud.
Christine squints as the light hits her eyes.
“Hey,” she says, lifting her hand in a tiny wave.
“Hey,” I say back.
“Is everybody alive?”
I assume she means all three of us.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Is everyone else dead?”
“Not everyone, probably, but everyone trying to kill us right now, I think, yeah.”