Disclaimer- They are like little action figures I do not own, but have the incisive need to play with. CBS owns them. Mr. Heller made them. No money is, was, or ever will be made from this.
[Chapter 12]
"Have you ever been shot?"
Rigsby supported most of Jane's weigh as they slowly hobbled their way though the house.
"Shot at? Yes. Physically shot no," Rigsby answered.
"I don't suggest it. Avoid it at all costs. It really hurts, and you wind up bleeding all over the place."
"I'll try and remember that."
"Your being sardonic."
"No, I'm cranky remember?"
"I'm glad you... you admit that," Jane said weakly.
"You okay? We need to stop? You're not going to pass out on me, are you?"
"No, don't stop. I want to get the hell out of here. Your sarcasm is a good distraction. It's better than your brooding."
"I don't brood."
"Okay... If you say so."
"When do I brood?"
"Whenever O'Laughlin shows up."
"I'm over her."
"Who mentioned a her?" Jane asked. "Or the fact that you still love her. Wait... Someone is here."
They were in the kitchen. Rigsby lowered Jane into a chair and raised his weapon. He crept through the living room and towards the foyer.
"Who is her?" Troy asked. He pulled a Sigma from his waist band and took aim towards Rigsby. "Give me the shotgun."
"No, drop your weapon."
"You don't have the balls," Troy dared.
"I'm not that little kid anymore. I will shoot you." Rigsby fired. The shot flew past Troy and the pellets lodged themselves into the cracked plaster behind him.
"You're a big bad cop now. I get you. You know its your fault I'm in this mess."
"My fault? The last I heard, you were dealing and were caught with 15 grams of pure. I didn't hand that to you."
"You were the one who started me on this path."
"Don't twist it. I never forced it on you." Rigsby backed up. If this turned into a fire fight, he needed to make sure he and Jane had cover. "I remember you talking me into making batches for you."
"You had no issue taking the money from me afterward. We were the same, for the money and good times," Troy said.
"No, we weren't. You bought beer, sneakers and weed. I used my cut for rent money, groceries, and bail. I used my cut so my mom didn't kill herself working three jobs."
"You drank and smoked just the same."
"I was young and stupid," Rigsby said, "and it's completely irrelevant now. Drop your weapon and surrender, or I will shoot you."
"Shoot. I'm not going back to prison. What will your friends and co-workers think of you when I tell them what you use to do."
Rigsby cocked the shotgun ready to take another shot. "Don't test me."
"Fine. You got me." Troy put his gun down on the stairs and back away. He took a few steps and put his hands up against the wall. "What now officer?"
"Walk," Rigsby motioned towards the living room. They stopped at the couch. "Empty your pockets."
Troy threw an extra clip, a pack of gum, some keys, his phone, and a hundred and twenty nine dollars and thirty seven cents down to the floor. He plopped down onto the couch and watched the agent carefully with his hands his lap. "What now?"
"Jane you okay?" Rigsby called out.
"Just peachy... Just looking at the pictures on the table," Jane said from the kitchen. "By the way, I knew it was both."
Rigsby took his eyes off of Troy for a second, trying to find something to bound the other man with.
Troy charged up and head butted Rigsby, then bolted for the steps.
Wayne was dazed. He fired a shot, missed completely, and hit the banister, sending wood splinters flying in several directions.
Hillard grabbed his weapon as he barreled up the steps . The convict turned and fired a couple of shots, then took cover in the bathroom.
Rigsby ducked behind the wall that separated the living room from the foyer. He needed to draw fire away from Jane and the kitchen.
"I don't believe you fell for that," Troy laughed from the second floor. He fired a few more shots, each one landing closer to Rigsby. "You're still so gullible. You were always soft."
"And you're still an asshole." Rigsby ran for the stairs. He saw the barrel of Troy's gun and slipped out onto the porch, taking cover behind an entry post. Troy fired again.
Rigsby checked the Mossburg. He had two shot left. He mentally rattled off the number of shots Troy fired from his Sigma series Smith and Wesson. Three going up the stairs. Three from upstairs. Two more out the door. Eight. He had the same gun when he was rookie. At most, the gun held fifteen shots, fourteen in the clip and one in the chamber.
Rigsby pivoted from his hiding spot and took off up the steps. He fired one shot into the bathroom door, then ducked into the master bedroom.
"You are such a bad shot. I swear, I don't know why you're even trying this," Rigsby goaded. "Remember Duck Hunt? You couldn't hit those ducks three feet from the tv screen."
Troy fired two more shots towards the bedroom. "Those ducks were fast!"
"Come on you can do better than that," Rigsby laughed. He stuck his head out the door and yelled, "how about my yard? Remember, when we were eight? It took you five shots to hit one bottle..."
"I told you the sun was in my eyes!" Troy growled. He fired two more shots.
"You were five feet away! All you had to do was point and shoot."
"You did something to that gun!"
"If you say so!" Rigsby yelled back. "What about paintball? Was the sun in your eyes that day too? If I remember correctly it was drizzling that day."
Troy fired again. And again.
Rigsby crept towards the bathroom.
The gun went click. Troy yelled in frustration.
Rigsby broke through the barrier between them. Two steps in, he was smacked in the face with the linen closet door.
Troy stepped out of the enclosed space and laughed. He was waiting for him. The convict punched him in the gut and grabbed for the shotgun.
Rigsby fought hard for this weapon and refused to let go. He couldn't draw the weapon in such close quarters. The bathroom was small, making it hard to maneuver. Wayne stomped on Troy's foot, then shoved him towards the sink. The agent reached for the medicine cabinet door, smashing it into the convicts face.
The mirror left little shards of glass embedded in his ear and cheek. Troy grunted in pain. He scrambled for anything within reach. He got his hands on the towel rack bar. He pulled it free and swung.
Rigsby blocked the bar with the barrel of the shotgun. He kicked Troy backwards and the convict stumbled into the bathtub.
Troy's head smacked the porcelain tiles. The shorter man rubbed his head, a bump was beginning to form. His eyes darted for anything he could use as a weapon. On the tub's sill sat a can of powdered bleach cleaner. He grabbed it and flung it towards Rigsby.
Rigsby shielded his eyes. The powder flew everywhere. Both men gagged, choked, and coughed as it entered their lungs.
Troy charged. They grappled as they exited the bathroom. Neither man wanted to concede.
They both knew who ever had control of the shotgun would be the winner. They hit the railing. The shotgun flew from both their hands and landed by the front door.
Adrenaline pushed though his veins, giving him a second wind. Troy was going on about something or other, but Rigsby's brain was tuning him out. Troy was always chatty, especially when he was all worked up. Rigsby only caught a word here and there.
Friendship. Owed. Money. Mexico.
Troy's presence was making him nostalgic. He hadn't thought about his uncle in years. Rigsby hated reminiscing, not since the life he knew was controlled by a crystal laced dust. Not since his father was sentenced to ten years for manslaughter when he was fourteen. Not since his mother was killed in a botched robbery at the job she hated. Not since his Uncle was killed in a car accident fifty seven days later. Not since he found himself alone in the world at sixteen.
Forward, and not back. Back couldn't be changed. He could only change the here and now.
Rigsby put his hands up as Troy charged again.
'Dodge and counter.'
He could hear his uncle give him advice as they sparred in the front yard, the older man trying to teach him how to defend himself. His dad never fist fight, but instead always carried a knife. Wayne knew he couldn't stab the neighborhood bullies that usually harassed him, though some days he was tempted.
'Boy, pay attention! Watch the persons eyes, not their hands. Their eyes were tell you where they're going.'
Troy swung for Rigsby's head.
Rigsby watched his eyes, anticipating the swing. Troy's cold brown eyes reflexively followed where he was going to make contact.
'Aim for the soft spots, like the nose or the jaw. Never the forehead.'
He grabbed Troy's a forearm mid swing and threw a quick jab, hitting him in the jaw.
Rigsby swung full force aiming for the other man's nose. At the last second Troy ducked.
Wayne's fist made contact with the convict's forehead.
He felt a finger break, maybe two. A knuckle pop out of position. Rigsby yelped in pain.
'Be mindful of your surroundings.'
Troy staggered dazed. He tackled Rigsby and they tumbled down the flight of stairs.
'Be patient. Wait for your opportunity to strike...'
Rigsby landed with Troy on top of him. He grabbed the man by the lapel and shoved him off.
The other man grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head into the hardwood floor.
Rigsby was dizzy, his vision faded in and out. A punch landed on his jaw. Another to his cheek. The adrenaline was wearing down.
'Never lay down and surrender...'
He balled his hand into a fist and took a blind swing. Rigsby lucked out. He caught Troy in the throat and threw the other man off of him.
Troy tumbled out the door, down the steps, and smacked into the mailbox further down the path. He wiggled a jagged post from the picket and charged towards Rigsby.
Wayne tried to shake off the spots that were swimming in his field of vision. The shotgun was within his reach. He grabbed the butt of the gun. Fumbled for the trigger. Took aim at the object charging towards him.
Then fired.
TBC
Did I mention this was my first attempt at an action story? How am I doing?
Also, 'lucked out' means different thing depending where you are in the world. In the US it means you got lucky, but in the UK it means you are unlucky.
Yay idioms!