“Wow. You got it bad, man. I almost feel sorry for you. But I’ve digressed too far already regarding your poor choice in women—oops!—girls, I should say.” Ranger seemed so smug, like someone who was sure they were holding the ace of spades, and not like someone who was outnumbered and on the receiving end of a long-barrel shotgun. “Know what else I can’t believe?” He cleared his throat. “I said . . . know what else I can’t believe?”
“What?” I felt safe enough to take the bait now that I had a gun. I raised it up a fraction, but had a sinking feeling.
“. . . That no one bothered to check to see if there were actually any bullets in that old thing.” With a vicious laugh Ranger lunged forward, yanking the barrel to him. I countered by pulling the trigger to what I knew would be a very disappointing—click.
“I can’t believe you did that!” preceded a whap of a slap that left my ears ringing. Ranger followed up by wrestling me into another headlock. Honestly, did he have no other moves? When I could focus, it was to see that Pete now had Ranger’s pistol in his hand. Halleluiah! . . . I was wondering where he’d got off to during that whole exchange.
“It’s over Davenport. Drop the gun, or I’m snapping your girlfriend’s neck, just like her glasses.” Ranger wasn’t kidding around. I was already blacking out—for real this time. I tried shaking my head no. Wanted to yell: Take the boys and run! But the only noise I was making was a very scary gurgling in the back of my throat.
For the second time, I wished Pete wasn’t such a good guy because— clunk!—of course, he dropped the dadgum thing. Ranger immediately released a little of the pressure. Still, I couldn’t see, the blurry spots now blacking out my carpet. I fought to stay awake, not liking the direction things were going. The bad guy was currently winning. Winning and kneeling down—taking my head with him—while he snatched up the gun. He stood us back up, pointed it at Pete, cackled: “You lose Davenport. I got the gun. I got the girl . . . Game over!”
I was just thinking: too bad he doesn’t have a handle bar mustache to pull, when out of nowhere a little ball of fury came hurtling in, charging at the giant. Ranger simply knocked him to the ground, where he landed on a pile of clothes.
“Mikey!” I screamed. “Get outta here!” Mikey just hauled himself up to face off with Ranger, in a David-and-Goliath-like manner.
“You got a slingshot in your back pocket, shorty?” Ranger asked, like, amused despite himself. I couldn’t believe we were thinking along the same lines . . . spooked me a little.
“You let Kadee go wight now!” Mikey shrieked up at the cadet so hard he looked possessed.
Inexplicably, Ranger immediately complied. I fell to my knees, gasping for breath. Mikey flew over to save me and knocked me over. By the time I scrambled to my feet, Ranger’s face was looking about the same as Mikey’s from a moment ago—possessed.
Pete spoke next in a sure, commanding voice: “Mikey, tell him to drop the gun.”
Ranger bellowed now, all sense of superior calm depleted from his voice. “Slater, back up!”
What’s going on? That was a strange thing Pete just said. And then it dawned on me—who the gifted brother really was. Of course! Mikey also had the enlarged pupils. I wrapped my arms around my littlest brother, who was busy staring down the giant. “Tell him to drop the gun again,” I whispered in his ear.
“Slater! Get your ass in here!” Ranger yelled so loudly, I wondered if he knew the bedroom bug was swimming around the cesspool.
“Hurry, Mikey!” I exhorted.
Eyes trained on Ranger, Mikey patted my face. “Dwop the gun,” he said, voice trembling.
Ranger’s muscles strained, his face going the color of boys in P.E. during a pull-up. His hand began to shake from the effort of holding on to the gun, so he brought the other one up to steady it.
I could tell it wouldn’t be long now. Slater (whoever that was) was on his way. They were better prepared than us. After all, it had been an ambush. No wonder Ranger had been so smug this whole time—he hadn’t come alone. They would win. We would lose. I felt it clearly now — in that peculiar way I had — the way this would all pan out.
I knew what must be done. They weren’t going to hurt us—we Connelly kids. But they would the bleeding renegade who had turned on them to warn me. Very soon, I wasn’t sure how long, Pete would be dragged from here. Maybe never to return. I had to save him.
While Ranger was preoccupied with controlling his gun-holding hand, I turned my conviction on to Pete, grabbing hold of his arm. He tore his eyes away from Ranger. It seemed like we hadn’t so much as glanced at each other since this whole mess started. Seemed like forever, but was probably only the span of a handful of minutes.
“Pete,” I breathed, “you have to run! They’re not gonna hurt us. But you . . . God, Pete! You have to go!”
“Not happening.”
“Pete, please. You have to trust me. Run! Now!”
“I’m not leaving you guys behind.”
A bang! like the back door just got blown off its hinges, interrupted us. Ranger was still hanging on to the gun. Barely. He was sweating and shaking, and obviously in so much pain, he looked like a man who needed to be put down.
Mikey kept repeating: “Dwop the gun.”
I thought his voice was too quiet, like he was just saying the words. “Harder Mikey. Yell it like you mean it!”
“Dwop the guuuuuuunnnn!” Mikey bellowed.
Heavy boots could be heard tromping efficiently through the house. I slammed the door and locked it. Ranger was now bent over at an odd angle, his face contorting into a grotesque grimace, like Bell’s Palsy had suddenly struck. The pistol finally shook from his hand, dropping—right into Pete’s hot hands.
Why am I not relieved?
“Run, Pete! Please! . . . It’s your only chance.”
His only move was to turn the gun back on Ranger, who was on the floor gasping for breath. A loud Crack! from combat boot splintering hollow wood rattled us. I would’ve laughed under normal circumstances—all he had to do was use an insignificant toothpick to do the job. But I was so scared my knees were actually knocking together.
Then several things happened at once: The foot attached to that boot bludgeoned through the door, creating a manhole right in the middle of the flimsy thing; Ranger yelled, “Dart the littlest boy!” and I paid him back with a swift kick to his gut; he groaned and rolled over. A calm voice behind the door said, “Drop the gun. We have the boy and your father, and we won’t hesitate to shoot unless you toss the gun through the hole in three seconds.”
Why’s Andrew still here?
Pete spoke up, using the same level tone. “The boy is gifted, and the mission has been to get him for months—you can’t harm him unless you want Weston up your ass.”
This was getting more complicated by the minute. I could barely keep up . . . and I was right in the thick of things.
“No, he’s not! The gifted one’s in here, and he needs a tag, ASAP!” Ranger hollered back while quickly rolling away from my attempts to thank him for clearing things up. He grabbed my foot out from under me, and I went down on my backside, landing like a breech birth in the messy aftermath of our war.