Suffolk County, NY, 14 years ago.
“Jesus, look at this thing! You know what I would have given for this car when I was your age?” Michael asked. He looked over at the unconscious body in the passenger seat as he twisted the top off the bullet in his hand and took another shot of uncut, high-test cocaine. And then another. It felt right, getting hopped up in a hopped-up Camaro from back in the day. From the plush ceiling to the toggle switch for the brake lights, to the fuckin’ scanner? It’s a time machine! The car was meant for this moment. “How the fuck did you get this thing through inspection?”
Michael laughed to himself. He’d always wanted to use the dart gun. That was just funny, dropping the kid like a bear. And now he wondered if you averaged their heart rates, would it be something normal? Not with this blow! His whole head was numb. And this wasn’t the plan…but fuck it. This would work. And it was going to feel great. That piece of shit.
The kid was going to be out for a bit. Long enough? Would he get to dart him again?
Michael took another shot.
“All right, kid, let’s go take care of this asshole. Thank me later.” He hit send on his Nokia cell phone and gave the single word command, “Now,” when he got an answer.
Michael turned the key and once more thrilled as the massive engine roared to life. Fucking thing of beauty! He did his best to keep under the speed limit and then rolled down their street. Sliding up in front of the house, Michael put it in park and gave the engine two quick revs to wake the kid’s stepfather in just the right mood for getting shot.
“I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t go anywhere…” Michael left the car idling on the street and ran to the front door, gun in one hand, the kid’s house key in the other. He opened the door, found the light switch, and rested his hand on it. George must have been reading from the same script. Just as Michael thought he would, the guy came to the other entrance of the room and hit the lights. In the half second before Michael turned them off, he saw George in his wife beater undershirt—of course—and George saw that it wasn’t his bastard stepson who had disturbed his sleep.
The suppressor took care of almost all the muzzle flash, but he did enjoy the short strobe light show as George went down. Ten seconds later Michael was back in the driver’s seat, laughing as he dropped it into gear and stepped on the gas.
The “ambulance” passed them going the other direction a minute later, and Michael made for bigger roads. And bigger things for his seventeen-year-old passenger.
Ten-year-old Tom Amore, awakened by the gunshots, looked out his window and wondered why his brother was driving away in the middle of the night. He got up to see what was going on just as the EMTs pulled up.
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