The Shooter. a short story by Charles Roberts

         The robbery had gone well, they’d left all the jewellery, that was harder to get rid of, and just taken the money, Johnny estimated that there was about two million in used notes all neatly bundled into thousands.  The gang had returned to the disused warehouse, they used as a base to split the money up, then go their separate ways.

          They had split the money up five ways and the other four had gone into another room to eat and get a drink, Johnny stayed with the money, not because he didn’t trust any of the others, he just wasn’t hungry or thirsty, besides they could see each other through the open door.  The shortest of the four stood and walked to the open door looking at Johnny suspiciously though half closed eyes.

“Who sent you?  Who do you work for?” the man asked as he walked into the room where Johnny leant against a large table covered in neat piles of banknotes, he didn’t reply.  “I asked you a question,” he said pulling a gun from his trouser belt.  “Who do you work for?  Who is pulling your strings?  Answer before I blow your head off.”  Again he didn’t answer.

Johnny knew that if you saw the puff of smoke from a gun at a hundred yards, then a split second later you would hear the crack of the gun going off.  He didn’t see a puff of smoke, he just heard the crack of the gun; then a split second later he felt a burning sensation about five inches to the left of his navel.  He put his left hand to where he’d felt the burning, brought it away to see that it was covered in blood.  He took his handkerchief out of his right pocket as he sat on the edge of the table and pressed it to the wound.

            He saw his assailant walking slowly towards him, the gun in his right hand by his side.  Johnny could feel something pressing slightly in his back as he sat.  He continued pushing the handkerchief into the bullet hole with his left hand, to try and stem the flow of blood, but he moved his right hand round to his back and felt the hilt of a ten inch dagger which was strapped to the middle of his back.

          He pulled, but felt a slight tightness of the blade in the scabbard, then he heard a faint click as the blade came free, he pulled the dagger from its scabbard, but held it behind his back, wait for the right moment, he thought watching the gun man walking slowly and deliberately towards him.

          “Now do I put an end to this quickly, or do I watch you slowly bleed to death?” he said swinging the gun round in his hand and waving it at Johnny.  He stopped about six feet in front of Johnny still waving the gun around, “one shot in the forehead should do the job, but you are losing a lot of blood so I could wait.”  He pointed the gun at Johnny’s head.  “I’m going to ask you one last time, who do you work for?  Who sent you?  Answer now!” he shouted.

          If I strike now I’ll only cut his arm, Johnny thought, a bit closer, just one more step.  He grasped the dagger tighter in his right hand, tensing his arm for a strike at his assailant.  The shooter stepped one pace forward bringing him to about three feet from Johnny; the gun almost touching Johnny’s forehead.

His right arm swept from behind his back, lunging forward he brought the dagger down on the side of the shooter’s neck then carrying on across his throat, blood spurted out of the cuts, he dropped the gun to grasp at his bleeding neck with both hands as he fell to the floor gasping for breath, but just blowing bloody bubbles from his severed wind pipe.  His eyes at first wide with surprise, then clouding over as death took its hold.

“That’s my answer,” Johnny said looking down at the man, then he sat back on the edge of the table, pushing his handkerchief harder against his wound.  He looked up to the doorway where three other men were standing, it was too late to hide the dagger; they must have seen what had happened.

“Looks like the bastard got what he deserved,” one of the three said after a while, “we agreed to not having shooters.”

“All the more for us,” another said, “are you all right? Are you going to make it?” he asked.

“It’s just a scratch,” Johnny answered, “don’t worry about me,” he said as he slipped the dagger back into its scabbard, “I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” the third said as he approached Johnny, “let me have a look, I was a medic with the Army.”  Johnny lifted his shirt so that the man could look at his wound.  “You’re going to need a hospital mate,” he said as he pushed the bloody cloth back into the wound.  “Anyone got a field dressing,” he asked.  One of the others looked in the rucksacks and pulled something out, tossing it to the man who was seeing to Johnny’s wound.

He pulled the bloody handkerchief away and applied the dressing, binding it tight around Johnny’s waist.  “That should do you for a bit, but you need a hospital or you’ll bleed to death.”

“No hospitals,” Johnny said, “they ask too many questions and we can’t have that.  Look!  Split the money up into four then get out of here, it’s only a matter of time before the cops arrive, someone is bound to have heard that shot and called them.  I’ll take my chances, if I’m caught I promise that I’ll keep my mouth shut, besides we agreed not to use our real names, now hurry I think that I can hear sirens in the distance.”

The three grabbed rucksacks and bundled the money into them leaving one rucksack for Johnny they each shook his hand, looked down at the dead body and left through the door they had entered the room.  The ex-army medic giving a thumbs up to Johnny as he left to say good luck.  Ten minutes later the police stormed in, guns at the ready, they saw Johnny sat on the table blood covering his trousers and shirt.

A stretcher was brought in and Johnny put onto it and taken to the hospital where they operated on him.  “One good operation,” an inspector said when Johnny came too.  “A drug lord brought down and the leader of the gang taken out.  You did some good work Johnny, there’ll be a bonus in this for you.”

“Not a rucksack sized bonus by any chance boss?”