A/N: In case you're new to this story, you might want to check out the Chapter 1 author's note about potentially upsetting content.
Marty's world had flipped upside down, so on instinct he'd driven from downtown, west across the 10 Freeway and straight to the nearest beach, in Santa Monica, where he'd tried to draw on the salty breezes, rhythmic whooshing waves, and crying gulls to calm his nerves, get his thoughts straight and figure out what to do. Everything he'd fought for, the career he'd worked so hard to build, the life that would be better than his childhood - it had all begun to crumble around him. The foundation on which he'd built this life had always consisted of questionable substance, so maybe he deserved it. Maybe this mess was what he was destined to end up with all along.
Revealing Nikolai's threats likely wouldn't even help. A judge would probably consider it inadmissible in court given the violation of attorney-client privilege they would no doubt see. Still, he wouldn't take the threats from Nikolai lightly, nor would he let the Russians hurt him without being ready to fight back. He'd been a fighter his whole life. It had helped him survive, and he'd be damned if he gave up now. Which was why a couple hours later, he found himself on the least gentrified street in Culver City, sitting in the Southern California Firearms' parking lot trying to work up the courage to make use of his Second Amendment right to keep and bear arms.
The last time he'd ever held a gun had been that fateful night when he'd shot his father. He'd never wanted to touch one again. The very thought of guns had always brought feelings of shame and terror roaring back into his mind. Yet now as he sat in his car, willing his hands to stop shaking, he also recalled the feeling of safety Ray's .38 revolver had brought him. And the power - the way it had allowed him to protect himself and his mom. He remembered that without it, he and his mother would both be dead now. Without it, he would never have had the space, the freedom, to even try to build a better life for himself. And that's all he wanted, to have the chance to keep moving forward, even if he felt like Sisyphus at the moment, doomed to lose all his momentum every time he made any progress.
He blew out one last calming breath, opened the door, and stood up to do what needed to be done.
It had been the sound of voices growing progressively louder that finally drew eleven-year-old Marty from sleep. His father's anger, slowed and slurred by the steady intake of alcohol throughout the evening, but no less dangerous. His mother's fear, crystal clear even as she tried to mask it with placating calmness in an effort to stem the inevitable. For his dad's wrath on this hot summer evening hadn't been something his mom had any hope of stopping. She never could, although it never stopped her from trying, especially when her son was with her.
He felt sick to his stomach. Hearing his parents fight, even if he lay somewhat safely tucked away upstairs in his small bedroom, always terrified him. If only he had the ability to teleport away, to be anywhere but here. Now the voices had grown strident enough that he could make out their words, mostly his dad slinging insults at his mom, telling her all the reasons she was worthless. If only she would stand up for herself… but that was just a fantasy. How could she when his dad was so much stronger, and meaner?
A glass shattered on the floor and Marty flinched. He knew the worst was yet to come. He wanted to go to her rescue, but doing so would only lead to him getting the shit kicked out of him too. For the millionth time he eyed his open closet, where the gun sat hidden in the back in a cardboard box full of Legos. Ever since his friend Ray had given it to him, its presence had somehow managed to both comfort and frighten him. It granted him the power to take control and protect his mom and himself, but that power was overwhelming. It was too much. How could he possibly decide when the right time to use it would be? What if he got it wrong? What if he missed? What if it only made his dad angrier? And if somehow his dad didn't kill him, would using it send his eleven-year-old self to jail?
Things hadn't always been this bad. He'd had good times with his dad. Well, good moments, anyway. Still, things had grown worse and worse since his dad had been laid off from his bookkeeping job. All the man did was hang out at the bar with his friends during the day before coming home. To make matters worse, his mom's taking on two different jobs waitressing to make ends meet had made him angrier than if they'd had no money at all. He seemed to hate her spending so much time out in the world without him. Plus it made it hard for her to have dinner on the table whenever he stumbled home.
Marty heard the slap and his mom crying out in pain. She sounded so afraid. He was such a coward, hiding away in his room. But what could he do? He was just a kid. A kid who found his dad utterly terrifying. Another slap, only this time the pained cry was cut off by a muffled sound that Marty knew from past experience was a punch, most likely to her stomach. Should he climb out the window and go to Ray's for help? They could call the cops from there.
Only the cops never helped. They'd been called to the house so many times Marty had lost count. But every time, they let his parents sweet talk them into believing everything was fine. Most likely, the cops didn't really want to get in the middle of things. And most of the time, Marty was so desperate to keep other people from knowing about how his family lived that he was relieved by that outcome.
His dad's shouts made his blood run cold. "Why are you even taking up space in my house, you worthless bitch? I know you've been whoring it up with those buddies of yours at your stupid jobs that barely pay for the uniforms. You know what? That's it. I'm gonna end this ridiculous marriage right now, only I don't need to waste money on a lawyer to do it." He heard another punch and thud and pictured his mom falling to the ground, followed by another thud and groan that had probably been a kick. And then he heard his dad's footsteps pounding up the stairs.
Marty couldn't breathe. Was his dad coming for him now? He started to cry even though his tears would just make his dad angrier. He cringed as his dad passed by his bedroom and went into his own, slamming open the closet doors. And then came the sound that almost made Marty pee in his pajama pants: the unmistakable metallic crack of shotgun shells being loaded into his dad's gun.
He was on the verge of passing out. His dad had threatened to kill him and his mom many times, but he'd never used a loaded weapon when he did it. What if he killed his mom? What would become of him then? Or would his dad kill the both of them in one fell swoop? What could he do? What should he do?
As he'd listened to his dad's angry footsteps heading back downstairs, he'd decided that it wouldn't hurt to at least get the revolver out of its hiding place. He could hold onto it and he'd be one step closer to possible safety. He'd scrambled over to the closet and with shaking hands, he'd rooted the gun out from under the Legos. It had been so heavy in his small hands. It had felt so forbidden, and at the same time so grown up, to hold it.
Marty had thought he might hyperventilate when the Southern California Firearms clerk had handed him the Glock 19 he recommended for personal protection, but he'd pushed past it and completed the purchase as quickly as possible. He'd had to wait ten days to pick the gun up thanks to the state's mandatory waiting period. He'd spent the time going to work, thankful to be able to pass so much time behind the courthouse's high security and metal detectors, and he'd spent each night at the small Los Feliz home of an out-of-town friend. He'd tried to make sure no one followed him, but he had no idea how to spot a tail. He'd tried taking winding routes and even making a few last-second turns like he'd seen on television, but in the end he could never be confident someone wasn't lurking behind him. As a result, he'd barely slept.
Once he'd picked up the gun and passed his required safety tests, which hadn't been an easy task thanks to the way his hands shook every time he held the damn thing, he'd taken Sergeant Bates up on his offer to help with the concealed carry permit, and true to his promise, Bates had made it happen. Marty had spent the last two days with that gun in his possession at all times, and as often as he cringed at its presence in his life, he couldn't deny that it also offered a reassurance that kept him from remaining in hiding indefinitely.
Tonight, gun at his back, he'd decided to return to his apartment. He arrived home uneventfully, and as the smell of the salt air hit his nose, he could have sworn he heard the waves calling out to him to grab his board for a little early evening surf. Normally the wide, empty beach and open water provided solace and a sense of calm, but now the prospect of being so vulnerable to strangers sounded uncomfortable, if not downright disturbing. He ended up going to bed early after he double checked all the locks on the door and every window, and peered out from behind his curtains to see if any suspicious characters sat lurking about. He even stacked a few pots behind the door to serve as a makeshift burglar alarm.
He shook his head, disgusted at his plight and his own crazy behavior. It was only a matter of time before he'd become a sleep-deprived, paranoid lunatic.
On the other hand, it's not paranoia if they're really trying to kill you, he thought ruefully when his carefully stacked items toppled over, waking him in the middle of the night. He snatched his gun from the bedside table and dove down behind the bed's far side. He listened for more, his heart in his throat. It didn't take long before his bedroom door slowly creaked open, but then nothing happened. He pictured the intruder seeing the empty bed in the faint illumination from the streetlights behind his curtains, and standing in the doorway, hesitating about what to do next. How could they fail to hear his heart that pounded like a drum, or the rapid breathing he was fighting to control?
Then he heard whispering, and his terror increased as he realized there was more than one person. One moved over toward his closet on the same wall as the door, whipping it open, no longer caring about staying quiet as the other walked out, perhaps to check his spare bedroom. Adrenaline coursed through his veins but he was frozen by indecision. He was barely qualified to point a gun at a stable, non-threatening target and hit it seventy percent of the time, which he'd only just managed to do to obtain his required firearm safety certificate. This was two people – at least – who were moving around in the dark and apparently ready to kill him.
But what if they weren't there to kill him? Could he shoot them in cold blood without warning them first? Should he? A million thoughts managed to race their way through his mind but vanished just as quickly when he heard the intruder take a step away from the closet and toward the bed. Shit.
He chose a middle ground of shooting first and asking questions later, but aiming for a non-lethal target. In one fell swoop, he sat up behind the bed, saw the dark shape of a man who stood shockingly close, aimed at his leg, and pulled the trigger. The man dropped, letting out a loud scream and what Marty assumed was a long string of curses in Russian. The second intruder ran back into the room from wherever he had wandered off to and Marty waited until he saw the man raise his gun. He pulled his own trigger and this time, he aimed for the man's chest. The man dropped with a grunt and Marty listened as he struggled to breath.
Again he found himself stuck, unsure what to do next. The man he'd shot in the leg must still have his weapon, and maybe the other man did too. How could he disarm them? Could he stay hidden behind the bed? The few random boxes stored underneath it were unlikely to stop any bullets the men might shoot at him from their prone positions. Shit.
Marty felt his heart getting ready to explode out of his chest. He wasn't yet safe. He declared into the darkness with as much menace as he could muster, "Throw your guns this way, or I swear to god, I'll come over there and finish you both off." He rolled his own eyes at his ridiculous threat – who was he to try to intimidate two Russian assassins? - but it was worth a try.
"Fuck you, you little mudak," the man closest to Marty ground out. "Come over here and I'll do the finishing."
Marty heard the metal of the Russian's gun as it dragged on the hardwood floor and realized he had to act before the man started shooting again. He stood up slowly, poking his head around the side of the bed only to see the man begin to lift his gun. Marty fired again and this time, he hit him in the chest, silencing him.
He hesitantly stood and moved closer, flicked on the ceiling light and kicked the man's gun away like he'd seen cops do on TV, then checked to see if the second man was a threat. By this point the second man's breath was even fainter and his gun had fallen a few feet away. Marty kicked it into a corner and plopped down onto the bed, waiting for his brain to catch up with what had just transpired and not sure how he'd cope with what he'd just done.
A/N: The flashback to the childhood shooting was actually the first thing I wrote for this story. Everything else was built out around it.
Also, FYI Legos are actually supposed to be called LEGO, which is not an acronym but the abbreviation of the two Danish words "leg godt", meaning "play well." All-caps is how the LEGO company asks to have their brand treated. I thought Marty would just think of them as I did when I was a kid, as "Legos."