27
I rush out from around the corner. See a broad dark figure in front of me.
"Holy s**t!" he says, turning to run.
I throw myself at him and tackle him to the floor. We hit it hard. He cries out in agony. Tries to scramble away. But I've got the bastard.
I roll him over onto his back, whip out my torch and shine it over both his hands. Empty, flapping. His waist—no weapon.
The inside of his navy suit jacket—unarmed. Not even a holster or a blade.
Finally, I shine the torch in his eyes.
"Don't kill me!" he yells, eyes shut and hyperventilating.
"Buck?" I say.
"Charlie?" he says, "is that you?"
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
"Looking for the damn light switch," he says.
"There isn't one," I say, turning off the torch and slipping it in my pocket.
"Lights on,” I say, clapping
