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“I’m serious,” Chuck said.
“Let’s all calm down,” Pastor Gallen said. “Dean! Mr. Littlefield!”
“I’ll pay for any tires I ruin today,” Chuck said. “But no one is going after those kids.”
Brother Dean stood stock-still between Chuck and his disabled pickup, breathing deeply, seeming to consider his next move. Chuck kept both hands on his gun, which was pointed down at the ground, but in Dean’s general direction.
“Brother Dean—” Pastor Gallen spoke evenly. “Let’s not let this get out of hand.”
“Dean,” the ball cap man said helpfully. “We can take my truck.”
Chuck turned and aimed his gun at the front tire of the Ford pickup. “No. We’re not taking any trucks, Ball Cap. Like I said, we’re all gonna just sit right here while those kids get down the road a bit with their grandfather.”
To his right, Chuck saw Dean’s hand still on his gun belt. To his left, he saw the ball cap man pull his own pistol from its holster and point it at Chuck. “Don’t you fuckin’ shoot my tire!” Then Ball Cap glanced over to Pastor Gallen. “Sorry for my language, Pastor.”
“Please, both of you... everyone... please.” The pastor had his hands out and took a step toward them. “We’re all going to put our guns away now. Matthew?”
“Not till he does!”
“Put your gun away and I’ll lower mine,” Chuck said.
“Those are brand-new Toyo Open Ranges!” Ball Cap Matthew said. “Don’t you fuckin’ shoot my new tire!”
“Brother Matthew, please—” The pastor, still talking in his calming voice, walked toward the ball cap man.
“I said I’m sorry for the language, Pastor! But I swear—if he shoots my tire—”
Chuck felt a tug at his side in the same moment he heard the crack of the gunshot.
He was spun by the hip, fell, and cried out, squeezing off a round that raised a puff of dirt between him and the truck. From the ground, Chuck twisted his body to return fire, but Ball Cap had tossed his weapon to the ground and thrown his hands straight into the air. “Oh shit! Oh shit! It just went off!”
Chuck hesitated—he couldn’t shoot the kid, much as he wanted to—and then he rolled onto his back, to see if Dean had pulledhisgun, but the big man was standing in the same place, rifle still strapped to his back, hand still on his gun belt, staring coolly at Chuck on the ground.
The pain hit then: a pulsing knife through flesh and bone, the whole left side of his pelvis on fire. Below the waistband of his pants, he could see the blossoming of scarlet-black blood. Of all the ironies—after his careful instructions to Kinnick about where to shoot someone, Chuck had been shot squarely in his left front pants pocket. And he’d dropped like a stone, just like he’d predicted. If it hit the femoral artery—
The pastor reached him, crouched down, one hand gently on Chuck’s wounded left side, another on his right arm. He asked quietly, “Can I take this, Chuck? Let’s not have anyone else hurt.”
Chuck let go of his tight grip on the handgun. “Okay,” he said, grimacing in pain. The pastor took the Glock, expertly set the safety, and removed the clip in two smooth motions. He placed the gun and clip gently on the dirt. Then he turned to Chuck.
“Okay, I’m going to look at your wound now. Don’t worry. I was an army medic.” He turned to Dean. “Brother Dean. Call 9-1-1. Tell them we have an accidental gunshot wound out here.”
Accidental?Chuck opened his mouth to object, but a cry came out instead, and the pastor just kept giving orders, this time to Ball Cap, whose hands were still in the air.
“Matthew, leave your gun right where it is, do not touch it, I repeat, do not touch it, go inside, and in the kitchen, under the sink, you’ll find a first aid kit. Also grab some towels and give me your belt.”
Both men just stared.
“Go!” The pastor raised his voice for the first time.
Dean pulled out his phone as Matthew ran toward the house.
“Lord God,” the pastor said quietly, “be with thy servant as I minister and console mine brother here, and lead him to You, Christ Jesus, even as You guide my hands and sustain us both through this troubling time.”
“Amen,” Chuck muttered. He was hit with another pulsing wave of pain, made a groaning, weeping sound, leaned back in the dirt, and had to give in to the pain for a moment, closing his eyes tight.
“Bleeding’s not too bad. He missed the artery,” Pastor Gallen said. “I think you’re going to be okay. How’s the pain?”
“Waves,” Chuck said through gritted teeth. “Not good.”