Eleven

I spend the morning driving around, trying to navigate the unfamiliar streets of Oklahoma City and make good on the deal I made with Brannigan in the early hours.

But so far, no luck. There's no sign of the guy, Robbie, I'm looking for at the address where Brannigan reckons he lives, or at the filling station where he sometimes allegedly works—when he can be bothered to show up. Which leaves a bar, a pool hall and his old lady's place for me to check before I'm all out of ideas.

It's likely too early for him to be in the bar, so I'm heading halfway back across town searching for his broad's apartment block when I realise I'm driving past Sullivan's right now, and the sign outside says it's open.

Sullivan's pool hall is dark and dingy, even though it's barely past midday. But despite me never having set foot in here before, it's reassuringly familiar. The kind of place where I understand the rules. The world where I belong.

Making a quick scan of the room, I spot the jerk Brannigan's sent me to find almost immediately amongst the two dozen or so patrons. Thick brown hair touching his shoulders, tattoos cover the backs of his hands and his forearms. I remember him hanging around out at the roadhouse a few weeks back, but we never spoke so I'm pretty sure he won't have the first clue I'm here because of him.

Robbie chalks the tip of his cue, blows away the excess blue dust then leans over the table and pots the black. He grins, then pockets the cash sitting on the edge of the table, crowing loudly to anyone who'll listen about how he can beat anyone if they're man enough to challenge him.

So Brannigan's information has finally paid off. Though I guess I shouldn't be surprised, given the scope of his operation and how much he seems to know about my life. Why wouldn't he keep tabs on other people too? I automatically glance over my shoulder, half expecting one of his heavies to be there, lurking in the shadows, ready to report back on whether I actually do this or not.

But there's nothing. Nobody watching. Well, no one except the bar tender, as she slowly wipes the counter down with a grimy dishrag.

'Beer please.'

'Sure thing, sweetheart.' The girl smiles at me. 'Don't think I've seen you in here before.'

I shrug. 'Just passing through.'

She sets the bottle in front of me, her fingers still round the neck. 'I'm Cindy, and you are?'

'Like I said, I'm just passing through.'

I pick up the bottle and retreat to an empty table with my beer, light a cigarette and wait.

Most of a pack of smokes, two and half beers and three hours later, I'm beginning to think this asshole ain't ever gonna leave this dive. Picking up my beer, I tilt the bottle. There's a half inch of warm beer, maybe less, left in the bottom. I should probably order another, given I've been nursing this one for three quarters of an hour now. But I can't risk drinking too much more. I have to keep a clear head and not fuck up my one chance to keep Leigh safe.

Maybe I should call it quits, go back out to the street and wait in Curly's car. It's parked right on the corner, I'll have a clear view of the door so I won't miss him if he ever does get around to leaving. Though given I'm fast approaching thirty six hours straight with no sleep, I don't exactly trust myself to stay awake if I'm sitting out there in a warm motor.

I take a small sip, and lean back in my chair. And then, out of the blue he's shaking hands with some other loser and saying his goodbyes as he shrugs on a beat-up leather jacket.

Setting the bottle down, I drop some cash on the table to cover my tab, snatch up my cigarettes and head outside before him, loitering out of sight in the next doorway.

Finally, just when I figure I'm wrong and he's not coming out here after all, the door swings open and he saunters towards me.

Pulling a cigarette from the carton and gripping it loosely between my lips, I make a show of patting pockets. 'Hey, buddy, you got a light?'

'Sure.' He reaches into his pocket with his chalky blue fingers and offers me a cheap plastic lighter, his brown eyes glassy from the booze.

I catch a hold of his arm, twist it up behind him. 'Move it.' I nudge him in the centre of his back, so he stumbles forward.

'What the hell?' The kid squirms as he tries to throw me off, but I grab him by the back of the neck with my other hand and shove him into the gloomy service alley behind the hardware store. 'Hey, man. Dont know what your problem is, but you got the wrong guy.'

'Don't think so.'

He twists and turns, breaks free of my grip for a second, swings a fist at me.

Sidestepping him, I lunge forwards and wrap my hand around his throat, crushing my palm against his windpipe as his head slams back against the brickwork. With my other hand I slip the new switch I bought this morning from my back pocket, press the tip of blade between his ribs and try not to dwell on what I'm doing here, about to knife some punk kid who's never done nothing to me. What might happen if I don't.

'Anyone screws Brannigan over, they've got to pay. And word is, you screwed him over big time.'

Voices and footsteps echo down the alley and his eyes dart hopefully towards the street.

'Keep your mouth shut.' I add a little more pressure to the knife, piercing through the thin fabric of his t-shirt and into his skin, drawing blood. 'Say one word and I promise it'll be your last.'

Finally, the alley is silent again, but ending it here where anyone could stumble onto us is too much of a risk. I draw back my fist, knock him down with a couple of quick punches.

We're far outside the city limits, the buildings thinned out way back, so by the time he finally wakes up we're surrounded by nothing but fields as far as the eye can see.

'Where you taking me?' He stares out the window for a few seconds then struggles against the thick gaffer tape binding his wrists and ankles for a minute or so, before slumping back against the seat. 'Brannigan's place ain't out here, it's on the other side of town.'

'Pretty sure I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut.'

'Look, I made a mistake.' He twists towards me. 'Tell him I'll get the money, pay him back, I swear.'

'I said, shut the fuck up.' Maybe I should've taped his mouth too. Don't need him whining and making me any more uneasy than I already am.

'But—'

I peel a hand off the steering wheel, smack him hard on the side of his head, so he bounces sideways, his skull thudding against the window. 'I ain't interested in listening to your bullshit. Now just be quiet, or I swear to God, I'll pull over and end you right now!'

He fidgets a bit more, unable to settle with his hands bound behind his back. But at least he takes the hint and doesn't say anymore. his front teeth working overtime as he gnaws at his bottom lip, making him look even younger than I first thought. He really is only a kid. Can't be more than eighteen, nineteen maybe. The same age I was when I was in McAlester.

We haven't passed a building in miles now, and the light is beginning to fade as the evening starts to set in. I take a left onto the next side track, heading deeper into the countryside, until the track becomes rougher and I'm in danger of writing off Curly's pride and joy if I attempt to drive much further over the ever increasing number of rocks and potholes.

Reaching under the drivers seat, I feel around for the gun I'd stashed there before leaving the roadhouse, and tuck it in the back of my jeans. I stride around the front of the car and fling open the passenger door, dragging Robbie out by the back of his jacket, throwing him down on the dusty ground. 'On your knees, asshole.'

'Please, mister,' he pleads, still sprawled on the dirt. 'I got some money, a fifty in my back pocket, more at home. You can give it all to Mitch. Or keep it for yourself. I'll pay him back, every cent, I swear to God, just don't shoot me, please.'

Jesus. I can't do this. But I have to, I have no choice. Brannigan made it clear. I do this one thing, and my slate is wiped clean. He gave his word.

I kick at his shins and then his stomach. 'I said get the hell up. Now!'

Slowly, laboriously, he inches himself up onto his knees and stares up at me, his face streaked with tears and snot and blood, all his cocky bravado from the pool hall vanished, so I'm faced with a scared kid, not the tough guy drug-dealing con-artist Brannigan had painted him as. 'Please, let me go, let me go. I don't want to die.' His words spill out, repeating the same desperate request over and over.

'Sorry, kid. It's not anything personal, but I gotta do this.' I curl my finger against the trigger, despite the tremor in my hand. All that matters, the only important thing, is protecting Leigh and my kids, keeping them safe.

'Please don't do this,' he pleads, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably as head slumps forwards, his mouth moving as he recites some prayer again and again.

My hand drops to my side and I back away towards the car, rest my hands on the hood, and take a deep breath. It all sounded so easy back at the roadhouse. Take out the lowlife cheating scum like Brannigan wants and save my family. Except this kid, well he doesn't seem so very much different from how I was at his age. A bit of a chancer, pushing his luck and trying to make a few bucks. Definitely no innocent, but that hardly means he deserves a bullet, does it?

I raise the gun again.

I have to.

But then what if I do? How can I live with myself, knowing I did this? Deliberately, in cold blood. Not a fight gone too far or self defence gone wrong. That I'd be killer, by choice, with yet more blood on my hands and another life on my conscience.

I want to scream. Instead, I stride back to the car, slam my fist against the roof.

There has to be another way, a way we both come out of this alive. I need some time to think, to work this out.

Twisting the gun in my hand, I pistol whip him across the face, send him toppling back into the dirt.

A/N: thanks for reading...I'm hoping to have the next chapter finishes pretty soon :)