“Yeah, I’ve been sorta collectin’.”
“No doubt.” said Chris, his lips still, his pupils wide and directing their dark sinews toward the double-barrel, the M-16, the row of polished handguns; 9mm’s, a Walther P99, a few 10mm’s, others he had no name for, foreign models possibly.
Staring at all this, cogs churning, they both stood as still as they could, but a nervous strain of energy pulsed silently between the two of them like a string of lights, no, like an electric fence. They thought of Mike. They thought of Mike dead.
“So now that you know about all this, I suppose we should think this all through. Less you wanna’ go all guns blazin’ and shit, Serpico and shit.”
“No.” Chris said. “This right here’s gotta be right on the money.”
I closed the cabinet and fed the digits in. We walked back upstairs, into the dimly lit living room and sat down on the sofa. I brushed the hair out of my eyes and exhaled for what seemed like the first time since I’d heard the news. I pulled the laptop from my backpack, flipped the screen open and pulled up a map of the city.
