“Grab the presidents in the closet, stuff them in your attaché case,” I shouted over my shoulder to Big O, gesturing with my shotgun, as I jacked another shell into the chamber.
Then, still working in slow motion and sweating heavily now under the duster, I threw down on the closed door directly in back of the table, which led to the shooting gallery—a long hallway crowded with maybe half a dozen filthy mattresses. But the door remained shut as a few seconds ticked by. Probably all the junkies back there too stoned to react to gunshots or just not giving a big rat’s ass.
But I should have first checked again on the giant bodyguard. Because even though Black Angus was hit, bleeding badly, and down, the badass suddenly sat up…and got off a shot from his Beretta—
Felt like I’d been slammed
