After The Purge, AKA John Smith (Book 3): Shoot Last

by Sisavath, Sam

  No, it hadn’t. Not by a long shot.

  It was times like these that Smith remembered a conversation with his mentor.

  “You’re not smart,” the older man had said.

  Smith had taken offense to that, as well he should have if he even had a tiny bit of self-respect. He had more than that, so he took exceptional offense to the blunt statement.

  “Don’t get me wrong, you’re no dummy,” his mentor had continued. “But you’re not Lara. Then again, no one is, but you don’t even come close.”

  “You trying to piss me off?” Smith had said. “Because you’re doing a pretty good job of it, old man.”

  His mentor had scoffed. “You telling me you didn’t already know that?”

  “Know what?”

  “That you’re not going to be a Rhodes Scholar anytime soon. Do you even know what that is?”

  Smith didn’t, but he wasn’t about to give the other man the benefit of the doubt. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, while you’re no dummy, you’re not going to outthink a lot of people. That’s where that hand of yours comes into play. It, and how fast and how straight you can pull the hog.”

  “The hog? What hog?”

  “That’s what they used to call a gun back in the old Wild West days. ‘Pull a hog’ meant going for your pistol.”

  “A hog, huh?” Smith had found the whole concept more than a little ridiculous.

  “Whatever you wanna call it, that’s where you’re exceptional. Better than almost anyone I’ve trained on this backwater of an island.”

  Smith couldn’t help himself and felt a little bit of proud there. Oh, who was he kidding? It was more than a little bit. It was a lot. To be told how good he was by a man like Peters was like being anointed knight by the Queen of England herself. Peters wasn’t just any man; he was the man at Basic.

  “But I’m not smart,” Smith said.

  “You’re not dumb,” Peters said.

  “But I’m not ever going to outthink someone.”

  “Maybe some, but not all of them. And you won’t have to. Because you will almost always be faster and a straighter shot than them. Remember, kid, it’s not about who shoots first; it’s about who shoots last.”

  “Dead man can’t shoot last?”

  “Dead man can’t do shit.”

  Dead man can’t do shit, Smith thought now as he stared across the living room space of Harris and Janice’s home at the Judge and his flunkies.

  There were two of them (Because of course there would be two of them; assholes always came in threes these days.), flanking the Judge on both sides. The man himself sat on an armchair, maybe because he was too lazy to stand like his underlings. Smith didn’t know how long they’d been there, waiting for him. What would they have done if he hadn’t shown up, he wondered. Maybe sit around in the dark. Or the Judge would, anyway, while the other two would stand guard and look for signs of him.

  “Who is the most dangerous man among the Judge’s men?” Smith had asked Travis back at the junkyard two days ago.

  Travis had answered Roman, the sniper. Then, when he’d learned Smith had already taken out the man, Travis had replied, “Stephens.”

  And it was Stephens on the Judge’s right that Smith kept an eye on now. Stephens wore that same well-beaten Cornhuskers hat on his head like the first time Smith had seen him outside of Gaffney. Stephens wasn’t really standing, he was leaning against a flower-printed wall at a slight angle, his right hand casually resting on the butt of his holstered pistol. A Glock, from the looks of it. Stephens hadn’t drawn the weapon yet, something he could have done before Smith showed himself. Instead, he’d left it in place, maybe because he didn’t think he needed to have it out and ready. Either he was a stupid man or a very arrogant one.

  “He’s a stone-cold killer,” Travis had said about Stephens.

  “He’s killed before,” Smith had said.

  “Plenty of times. When the Judge needs someone gone, Stephens always gets the job. Hell, he volunteers most of the time.”

  “Not Roman?”

  “Roman’s a sniper. He kills from long-range. Stephens does it up close and personal, and he enjoys every second of it.”

  Not stupid, just arrogant, Smith thought now as he eyeballed Stephens back. And maybe, if Travis was to be believed—and Smith did believe him—then Stephens had a good reason to feel confident.

  The other flunky, to the Judge’s left, must not have been as convinced about his ability with a gun as Stephens, because he had his weapon out. Not a handgun, which would have been preferable for Smith, but a pump-action shotgun that was up at chest level and pointed straight at Smith’s midsection. Or chest. Not that the exact location mattered, because either place would tear a hole in him. Or holes, depending on what the weapon was loaded with—buckshot or slug rounds.

  Smith recognized the other man. He was the oldest member of the posse that had intercepted Smith and Mary out in the wilds not too long ago. Smith still didn’t know his name, but he remembered that the man always stuck to Kyle, the youngster that Smith had killed at Lucky’s. Smith had wondered if they were related or had some kind of mentor-student relationship. Not that he ever asked, or cared.

  Right now, as the man glared at him from across the semi-dark living room, Smith got the impression the old man knew about what Smith had done to Kyle, and he was none too happy about it. His forefinger was in the trigger guard of the shotgun, and he had the look of someone just waiting for an excuse to fire.

  The reason he hadn’t was probably because Smith’s own Glock was still in its holster and the Judge had given explicit instructions not to fire at first sight. If Smith had a gun in his hand when he stepped out of the kitchen, would the old man have shot him dead? Smith didn’t know the answer to that one, and, frankly, didn’t care. This was the situation he’d found himself in, so he dealt with the reality and not the what-ifs.

  FUBAR. Now this is FUBAR, all right.

  Smith looked from Stephens to the old man to the Judge…

  …then at Aaron.

  The Judge had brought Aaron out here to wait along with them. The boy was perched on the big man’s right knee, his eyes wide open as they stared back at Smith. He looked tired, as if he’d been rustled from sleep to join this little charade that the Judge had cooked up for…whose benefit? Smith’s? Aaron’s? The Judge’s?

  Did it even matter?

  “What’s the matter?” the Judge said. “Cat got your tongue, Mr. Smith?”

  Smith didn’t answer. He also kept his hands where they were—hanging at his sides where they’d been since he stepped through the kitchen’s doorless entrance. He didn’t want to give the old man the excuse he was probably looking for to pull that trigger.

  Stephens, for his part, just looked bored with the whole thing.

  Stay bored, asshole. You won’t be so bored when I shoot you to death.

  Smith looked past Aaron’s terrified face and at the Judge. “This all seems a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

  “What can I say? I’m a sucker for drama,” the Judge said.

  “Me, not so much.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. You were pretty dramatic when you showed up here two nights ago. I hadn’t expected that.”

  “No?”

  “I’m man enough to admit it. After what happened to Mandy, and having learned you’d survived, I was convinced you’d run. After all, none of this is any of your business. It was always between me and Mandy’s band of ne’er-do-wells. Now between me and Roger’s band of ne’er-do-wells. I was sure you’d focus on that part and leave well enough alone.”

  The big man sighed, almost as if he was disappointed with Smith. It was, Smith thought, overly dramatic and clearly done for his benefit. All for the sake of drama, or the Judge would have told either Stephens or the old man to shoot Smith as soon as he stepped out of the kitchen.

  Because either one of them could have done that. They could have
done that pretty goddamn easily, and Smith wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing about it.

  “My point is, while you’re no dummy, you’re not going to outthink a lot of people,” his mentor had said.

  Fuck if Peters hadn’t been right. Smith had thought he’d been pretty clever two nights ago when he came back to Gaffney. Then, again, pretty clever when he sent Gramps and Lorna to attack the north side of town with their armor-plated Jeep while he snuck in. He thought he’d been pretty clever both times.

  Not so much, as it turned out.

  “It was a nice touch,” the Judge was saying. “The car, I mean. I was surprised when they drove it back toward town. More surprise when the guards told me it had been modified. But then again, those folks at the junkyard are nothing if not scrappy.”

  Smith’s eyes snapped from the Judge’s fat face to Aaron’s. The boy looked ready to defecate in his pants. He might have been mute and young, but he clearly knew what was happening. Smith felt sorry for him. The kid had seen more in a week than most people had seen in a handful of lifetimes.

  He moved his eyes slightly to pick Stephens back up. The Gaffney man still looked as bored now as when Smith revealed himself. He also hadn’t drawn his weapon yet, even though he could have at any time.

  “He’s a stone-cold killer,” Travis had said about Stephens. “When the Judge needs someone gone, Stephens always gets the job. Hell, he volunteers most of the time... Stephens does it up close and personal, and he enjoys every second of it.”

  Stephens. The very bored-looking asshole staring back at Smith now, that slight smirk plastered all over his shootable face.

  Smith looked back at the Judge. “So what now?”

  “Now, you take off your gun belt and put it on the floor,” the Judge said.

  “And then?”

  “And then you surrender yourself to me.”

  “Why? You want to reeducate me, too?”

  “I think we both know that’s not going to work with you, Mr. Smith.”

  Smith couldn’t help himself and smiled. “You’re probably right.”

  His eyes snapped from the Judge’s pudgy face to Aaron’s round and almost cherubic face as it trembled slightly.

  Then to the old man with the shotgun.

  And finally, back to Stephens.

  “Mr. Smith,” the Judge said. “Do you want me to count down from five?”

  “And why would I want you to do that?” Smith asked.

  The big man shrugged. “For the sake of drama. They do this in the movies all the time.”

  “You really had this all planned out in your head, didn’t you?”

  “Most of it. Enough that I had someone watching the good doctor’s place long before you showed up to wait for her.”

  “You saw me?”

  “Not me, of course.”

  “One of your flunkies.”

  “One of my assistants.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “One title is more…prestigious than the other.”

  Smith smiled. “Nah.”

  “‘Nah?’”

  “Nah. I don’t think I’ll play your game and drag this out.”

  The Judge’s lips curved into a wide frown. “Are you sure? Because I don’t think you’ll like the alternative.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Then how do you propose you surrender yourself?”

  Smith’s eyes shifted slightly over to Aaron, still perched precariously on the Judge’s right knee.

  “Aaron,” Smith said.

  The boy’s eyes lit up. They hadn’t, as far as Smith could tell, ever left his face. He wasn’t sure the boy could even move, and that played into Smith’s decision.

  “Close your eyes,” Smith said.

  Aaron continued to stare at him, confused.

  “Close your eyes, son,” Smith said. “Now.”

  Thank God Aaron obeyed and quickly squeezed both eyes shut.

  “Shoot him!” the Judge screamed.

  Smith drew.

  Twenty-Six

  It takes, give or take, a second for a person to complete the pull on a gun’s trigger. That is, if they were prepared to do it and simply acted without hesitation.

  That was the important part: Simply acted without hesitation.

  The problem for the older man with the shotgun pointed at Smith was that he’d been holding that weapon—and it was a heavy weapon, too, much heavier than a pistol—for a while now. Perhaps it wasn’t “long” in the sense that it had been hours, but it’d been more than a few seconds and way more than a few minutes as the Judge played out his little dramatic scene with Smith.

  How long, though? Two minutes? Three? Five?

  It was more than a few seconds, that much was a certainty. The old man had had his forefinger in the trigger guard and on the trigger the entire time but hadn’t begun the pull. That required applying pressure to the trigger, then following through with the full pull.

  One second. That was all it should have taken. One second.

  Except the old man had been holding his pose, finger lazily in the trigger guard but not in the process of pulling the trigger, that when the Judge finally screamed “Shoot him!” it took a moment for the command to register. It took, from what Smith could tell, about two and a half seconds longer than it should have for the old man to pull the trigger.

  In fact, the old man took so long that Stephens already had his gun out of its holster by the time the old man finally acted and pulled the trigger.

  Stephens was fast, but he wasn’t fast enough.

  Smith shot him in the forehead even as the man managed to get his Glock out and began lifting it to take aim. That was his mistake. Aiming. Smith didn’t have to do that. He’d learned how to shoot without wasting time lifting the gun once it cleared leather. He simply drew and fired from the hip.

  Stephens didn’t get off a shot, but the old man did, even as Smith was swiveling around to face him. The shotgun fired buckshot, and Smith heard rather than felt the multiple balls of steel as they whistled around his head and body. Some struck him in the left shoulder, spinning him slightly, but Smith didn’t let go of his gun.

  Bang!

  The old man didn’t go down from the first bullet, but instead staggered backward, appearing more shocked than hurt. The shotgun dipped slightly, and he was trying to raise it back up when Smith shot him again, this time in the middle of the face. The head snapped back, and the body collapsed, but Smith was already turning to face the Judge.

  The fat man remained sitting in the armchair with Aaron perched on his right knee. The boy still had his eyes shut just as Smith had told him. In fact, Smith could see his face scrunched up in a tight ball even as the kid shivered on the Judge’s knee.

  The Judge looked to his right at Stephens’ crumpled body, before glancing left at the old man on the other side. He was breathing hard. Smith could hear every loud heave from all the way across the living room.

  “Don’t shoot; you’ll hit the boy,” the Judge said even as he lifted his left hand toward Smith, the palm turned up. All the while, his right hand was coming out from behind Aaron’s back.

  Smith didn’t know what was in that hand and he didn’t particularly care.

  Bang!

  The Judge’s head snapped backward and bounced against the armchair’s plush upholstery and froze in place, the blood that had sprayed out the back of his skull causing him to stick to the chair behind him.

  Aaron fell off the Judge’s suddenly slack knee and to the floor. He picked himself up and glanced around—at Stephens, then the Judge, then the old man—before looking across the room at Smith. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving.

  “Get over here, boy,” Smith said.

  The boy got up and ran over just as light appeared outside the window behind the Judge’s unmoving body.

  Lanterns. LED lanterns.

  And men holding them were rushing toward the house.

  Smi
th didn’t bother reloading the Glock. He’d fired four shots and still had eleven left in the magazine. The pistol felt a little light in his hand, but maybe that had a little something to do with—

  Aaron grabbed at Smith’s hand, and Smith was about to turn around and ask him what he was doing when he almost fell down. Apparently, the kid had either sensed it or saw him about to topple right over, and took action.

  Smart kid, Smith thought as he collapsed to his knees in the middle of the living room. Aaron crouched next to him, staring at him with those big brown eyes of his. He didn’t say a word because he couldn’t, but there was no missing the fear in his eyes.

  Not for himself, Smith saw, but for Smith.

  Shit, I’m bleeding.

  He’d been bleeding since the old man let loose with the shotgun. As he replayed the shootout in his head, Smith guessed he should have taken out the old man first and neutralized the pump-action. But he’d gotten it into his head that Stephens was the more dangerous one and needed to be dealt with. He’d committed. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was wrong.

  All he knew was that he was still alive.

  He had buckshot in his left shoulder and along the length of his arm, and maybe a few of the pellets had taken chunks from one of his cheeks. And he was bleeding. He’d been bleeding since he fired the last shot but just hadn’t felt or recognized it until now that the danger was over.

  No, the danger wasn’t over. The danger was just getting started.

  Smith stumbled up from the carpeted floor with Aaron clutching his arm. He felt the boy trying to tug him back down, but Smith was bigger and stronger, and dragged the both of them up to their feet.

  “It’s okay,” Smith said. “Go hide behind the sofa.”

  The boy stared at him.

  “Go,” Smith said.

  The boy didn’t move, and he didn’t let go of Smith’s arm.

  “Go,” Smith said again. Louder and with more authority, but not quite screaming. Or, at least, he didn’t think he was screaming. But he had to get the boy to do what he was told because—

  Smith glanced toward the windows as the halo of lights grew closer.