“Fu—aaaagh!” he howled, shaking me off while Pete kicked the gun out of his hand. Ranger dropped me like a hot branding iron so the real battle could ensue. He retaliated with a fast fist to Pete’s face. Pete went sprawling backwards onto my dresser. A split second later, Ranger went back for the gun. I dove for it—just beating him—and tossed it out of his reach. A kick to my soft innards was my reward for that endeavor. I cried out, clutching my gut and rolling around on the floor in agony. What little breath I’d purchased was just knocked out of me.
Pete rallied with my alarm clock, hurling it like a grenade at Ranger’s head. Ranger deflected it with his hand, causing it to ricochet into the wall with a clang. He swore and shook out his hand.
“Playing dirty, Davenport? I didn’t think that was your style.”
Please don’t take the bait, I thought right as Pete dropped the jagged piece of tulip lamp in his hand. My heart dropped anchor to my gut. I wanted to protest but felt myself sucking air through straw (and that straw had leaks).
They circled each other like furious lions. From my insect view, I saw the duct tape was holding steady. But I couldn’t hold on to a second of relief because the elite cadets began exchanging blows, fighting in weird jabs and darts, swift kicks, and more thrown objects. A wooden hanger hurtled at Pete, only to be caught and hurled right back. I wasn’t aware my bedroom stored so many weapons. Now Ranger used his mass advantage to bulldoze Pete back into my dresser. Pete slammed two fists down, hard and fast, into Ranger’s ears. Ranger roared in pain and fury. Somehow the dresser got dumped over in all the chaos, and they started wrestling around on the contents of my wardrobe.
I saw that things could go either way. And I wasn’t the kind to cower behind some upended furniture, peeping out every-once-in-a-while to scream while the villain beat up on the hero until the hero was able to rally. For one thing, my hero was working at a disadvantage this morning being both injured and hungover. Plus, Ranger ambushed us while we were sleeping, and I considered that cheating. Not to mention that he was the type of guy who looked like he chewed up HGH for breakfast every morning. Oh, and there was the little matter of him bringing a gun.
The gun! Where was it? It was lost under a blanket of covers, clothes, and combat objects. I scrounged for it until my hard-backed bible went soaring past my head, and then I duck-dove out of the way of Ranger’s foot as it went through dry wall. They were going to break down my walls if they didn’t break each other first. Finally, I rallied to crawl to the door, where I stood, a shocked survivor from the battlefield. Ignoring the pain radiating from my midsection, I half-lurched, half-limped into my father’s room to get his gun down for the second time in eight hours. I was dismayed to find my father splayed across his bed like a felled grizzly across the hood of a Chevy, snoring away peacefully while World War III broke out in his house. Drugged no doubt.
God he was worthless.
Crap! The gun was missing—still outside by the elm tree! Adrenaline pumped my legs out the door to go fetch it, despite my achy gut. When I picked it up, it felt satisfyingly heavy in my hands. I lope-limped back into the chaos. Crashes, smashes, and grunts greeted me at the door. I needed to get back to the frontlines, but some instinct steered my body towards my brothers’ room instead. Slamming through the door, I found them lying on top of their beds. Bound and gagged. The whites of their eyes flashed terror, tears streaming over wind-chapped cheeks. I howled with fury. Spinning back to the bathroom, I dug the razorblade from the bottom of the trashcan. And, still working on instinct, I ran it back to Mikey and sawed through his ropes.
“Untie your brother and run!” I screamed as though my mouth weren’t right next to his ear. Then me and my shotgun crashed into the now ominously silent bedroom. I came upon Ranger, dangling the same piece of broken lamp that Pete had dropped earlier. Over Pete’s face.
“Guess good guys really do finish last” was just coming from a sweating, heaving, bleeding Ranger. Even in the midst of the crisis, he sounded like he was reading from the villain’s role of a bad western.
On cue, I delivered my own line: “Not today they don’t.” Theatrically, I cocked back the hammer of the shotgun.
Ranger guttered a laugh. His hands reluctantly went up as the jagged glass went down. “I was wondering where that shotgun had run off to.”
“Right now, it’s pointed at your back.” I nudged him with the barrel to prove my point.
He started laughing again—at me, Pete, the situation, I wasn’t sure. “You’re quite the little Tom cat, Miss Connelly. Maybe that’ll be my new nickname for you at The Academy . . . Katie-Kat seems a little too tame for you.”
“Stand up.” I punctuated this command with a hard kidney poke.
Ranger slowly rose, the grin on his face made more malevolent looking by the blood dripping from his mouth. I peeped around the architecture of man, standing between me and Pete, who didn’t look so good. He was also bleeding. Profusely. And I wondered, with a shot of fear, if the blood smeared all over Ranger was actually Pete’s. I saw the washcloth had finally come off—ripped off most likely. I didn’t see how it could’ve fallen off. Hot anger oozed from me. I leveled Ranger with a decimating glare.
“Come on, Connelly,” Ranger cajoled. “You know you’re not going to shoot me . . . I believe that’s Commandment numero uno in the Good Book: Thou shalt not kill.”
“Number six,” I corrected.
“Huh,” he said, using his shoulder to wipe some blood from his lip. “Could’ve sworn that was the first one. . . . What is number one, then?” He seemed genuinely interested.
“Thou shalt not have any Gods before me.”
“Well, I guess it’s true—you do learn something new every day.”
“But it don’t say nothin’ ‘bout shootin’ off a foot,” I warned as he made to move. He appeared to kick at something—most likely the pistol. I stalled him with my aim.
“Well it ought to . . . doesn’t seem very Christian-like,” Ranger put out there, along with an arched black brow.
I could hear Pete start to rally a little. “Pete, are you okay?”
He kind of groaned from the floor, holding his head in one hand and giving the thumbs up with the other.
“You know what I can’t believe?” Ranger inquired pleasantly, despite the fact he was still dripping blood all over my carpet. Neither one of us answered him, so he continued on. “Well, quite a few things really . . . like how you could prefer slummin’ it out here, at the warty, bare-ass end of civilization with trailer-trash, to your privileged life at The Academy for one.” He used the same conversational tone members of the church did when socializing at potluck dinners.
Ranger went to go on with his monologue, but Pete had to protest this. Grunting, he muscled himself into upright position. “You don’t deserve to lick the dust off her boots, you piece of shit asshole,” he said, managing to rise unsteadily to his feet.
Ranger looked at my face in mock horror, yet seemed utterly delighted by this. “Now that don’t seem Christian-like at all. Am I right, Kate? . . . Doesn’t seem like you’ve been a very good influence on him.”
“Don’t even say her name,” Pete warned, grabbing the discarded, busted lamp globe that seemed to be a key player in this battle (and it was pink no less). He pointed it at Ranger.