The Laughing Man, Book Two: Goner

Chapter Two

Mr. J was facing the opposite direction when the shot penetrated the night. It took approximately half a second to turn, another half a second to draw his own weapon. One more second to locate the target and half a second to aim. Two and half seconds all together. Enough time for the assassin to start running. Tracking the shadowy figure, he fired off two rounds. First one, miss. Second one, hit. Only a clip, though. Upper left tricep, before the gunman was safe behind the cover of a building.

The distance was great enough that following would be pointless and Mr. J didn't believe in pointless endeavors. The gunman would be hunted down in the future. Instead, he turned his attentions to his moaning companion, her body gracefully splayed out face first on the sidewalk, a puddle of blood increasing beneath her. Still alive and conscious. Only a moment of hesitation, decision, before he crouched down, turning her over. Too much investment to let her die now. A small amount of blood gathered on her forehead. Head wound from the fall. Bullet inside her gut, twisting into her intestines.

"Nothing but trouble," he said to her, unbuckling her belt, and unzipping her pants. Gently, he peeled the material away from the damaged area, his body sheltering her bare skin from the falling snow. Blood gushed out from the tiny hole. Too deep for his skills.

Her lips were turned up in a smile. Enjoying the sensations that wracked her body, no doubt. "Sorry, Mr. J." Her voice was weak as her eyes fluttered open, then closed again. A quick slap to her face stopped her from losing consciousness. "Again," she murmured, always wanting more pain from his hand. It almost made him smile.

A tug at his tie, slipping it from around his neck. He pressed the fabric against the wound, harshly, eliciting a moan of pleasure from her. Wouldn't stop but would slow down the bleeding. Too much blood for a normal entry wound with no exit. Time was of the essence. His other hand reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Pushing one button, he put it to his ear.

"What?" A surly male voice answered.

"Bring the car around," Mr. J said and put the phone back into his pocket.

Waiting for the car, he looked down at his lover, the bliss on her face clear. She was right. The assassin was a crap shot. Or it was an intentional miss. The trajectory of the bullet was too low. Thinking back. He heard the crunch of her boots shift right before the shot. Harley had moved to block him from the gunman. No time for the gunman to adjust. Which meant the bullet was meant for him. Based on the height difference between Harley and himself, and the angle, the bullet was intended to hit Mr. J in the femoral artery. Or again, a crap shot. Either way, an insult.

Another thought clicked. "You took a bullet for me, Harley."

"Worth it," she whispered, shaking, as he pushed down against her wound again.

Pride swelled within him at his success. The disappointment from her loss of control faded within him. Harley's sense of self-preservation was skewed when it came to receiving pain, a problem when she was truly injured by his hand. Times when he went too far and she couldn't, wouldn't stop him. Nights when she couldn't move, yet begged for more. This was different, though. She moved in front of him out of instinct. Not because she knew she would receive pain, but because she wanted to prevent him harm. He couldn't have been more pleased with her progress.

An inconspicuous silver Ford Taurus pulled up, a tinted window lowering. Mr. J looked up. "Help me get her in the car."

The driver's side door open and a man stepped out. Larger framed, but not fat. The body of a football player and a constant smirk on the face, of confidence and self-loathing. Brown hair, wide cheeks, he looked smarmy, oily, as if lies were his trade. Went by the name of Doc. Not a medical doctor, even though he loved to play with scalpels and needles. Doc rounded the front of the vehicle, a sneer forming as he looked down at Harley.