pants using a belt instead of suspenders. He attached the holster to the belt and shoved the ammunition in the rented tuxedo’s deep pockets.
Then he went over to Dan’s Cherokee and took out the shotgun. He also found two boxes of ammunition. One of them contained rounds for the .40 caliber. The other held double-ought buckshot. The same rounds would be in the shotgun’s magazine. He pried out a half dozen shotgun shells and stuffed them in his pants pockets. The box of .40-caliber ammunition he kept in his hand. Between the revolver and all the ammunition, he felt like a waddling duck.
Screw it. I’d rather be a well-armed duck than a sitting one.
By now, Sharon and Hobbs had gotten Dan into the back of the van. Jenny Lynch had recovered enough to lend them a hand. Less than a minute later, the van was turning around and heading back to the high school.
Mike’s union members were gathered around him. All of them were armed. Most of them with pistols, except Frank’s beloved lever-action Winchester and Harry Lefferts’—
“For Christ’s sake, Harry,” Mike snapped, “don’t ever let Dan catch you with that.”
Harry grinned. He was the same age as Darryl—they were best friends, in fact—and shared Darryl’s carefree youthful attitudes. “And what’s wrong with a sawed-off shotgun?” he demanded. He jerked his head around, pointing to everyone else with his chin. “It’s not as if every damn one of these guns isn’t illegal, when you get right down to it. So what’s another concealed weapon—among friends?”
A little chuckle swept the group. Mike made a face. “Yeah, well—you better be damn close, with that thing. Don’t forget these guys were wearing armor.”
He turned now to the doctor, and handed him the box of .40-caliber ammunition he’d found in the glove compartment. Nichols put down the first-aid kit he was carrying. Mike was not particularly surprised to see the quick and expert way in which Nichols reloaded the automatic pistol.
“Well-trained, you Marines,” he murmured.
Nichols snorted. “Marines, my ass. I knew what to do with one of these before I was twelve.” He hefted the automatic. “This is Blackstone Rangers’ training. I grew up within spitting distance of Sixty-third and Cottage Grove.”
Suddenly, the black doctor was beaming wickedly at the white men around him. “Gentlemen,” he said, “the Marines are at your side. Not to mention Chicago’s worst ghetto. Let’s deal.”
The
Then he went over to Dan’s Cherokee and took out the shotgun. He also found two boxes of ammunition. One of them contained rounds for the .40 caliber. The other held double-ought buckshot. The same rounds would be in the shotgun’s magazine. He pried out a half dozen shotgun shells and stuffed them in his pants pockets. The box of .40-caliber ammunition he kept in his hand. Between the revolver and all the ammunition, he felt like a waddling duck.
Screw it. I’d rather be a well-armed duck than a sitting one.
By now, Sharon and Hobbs had gotten Dan into the back of the van. Jenny Lynch had recovered enough to lend them a hand. Less than a minute later, the van was turning around and heading back to the high school.
Mike’s union members were gathered around him. All of them were armed. Most of them with pistols, except Frank’s beloved lever-action Winchester and Harry Lefferts’—
“For Christ’s sake, Harry,” Mike snapped, “don’t ever let Dan catch you with that.”
Harry grinned. He was the same age as Darryl—they were best friends, in fact—and shared Darryl’s carefree youthful attitudes. “And what’s wrong with a sawed-off shotgun?” he demanded. He jerked his head around, pointing to everyone else with his chin. “It’s not as if every damn one of these guns isn’t illegal, when you get right down to it. So what’s another concealed weapon—among friends?”
A little chuckle swept the group. Mike made a face. “Yeah, well—you better be damn close, with that thing. Don’t forget these guys were wearing armor.”
He turned now to the doctor, and handed him the box of .40-caliber ammunition he’d found in the glove compartment. Nichols put down the first-aid kit he was carrying. Mike was not particularly surprised to see the quick and expert way in which Nichols reloaded the automatic pistol.
“Well-trained, you Marines,” he murmured.
Nichols snorted. “Marines, my ass. I knew what to do with one of these before I was twelve.” He hefted the automatic. “This is Blackstone Rangers’ training. I grew up within spitting distance of Sixty-third and Cottage Grove.”
Suddenly, the black doctor was beaming wickedly at the white men around him. “Gentlemen,” he said, “the Marines are at your side. Not to mention Chicago’s worst ghetto. Let’s deal.”
The