Scapegoat

Well, crap.
I can't believe they actually think I did this. One damn coincidence and suddenly they're all calling for my head. Why me? What do they hate me for? Being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Saying the wrong thing? The dude was dating my ex? I don't even care! Hell, they barely even know me! I stare at the package that showed up this morning, the gift that slaps me in the face with its fearsome cardboard exoskeleton every time I look at it. Whoever my ominous, anonymous benefactor is clearly doesn't have my well-being on his mind. Why the delivery guy didn't have any questions about a heavy black box is beyond me. Thank God I was smart enough to call Chance to take it for X-rays at the crime lab. Now all I have to do is wait for him to show up. Gonna be a hell of a half-hour, that's for sure.

I hear something hit a window in the kitchen. My left hand immediately snaps itself onto the handle of the shiny new Ruger that's been hiding in my waistband since the ten-day waiting period blew over. It's only been a few weeks, and this kind of ballistic weapon's grown obsolete, but the cold, unforgiving American steel has become one of my best friends since the day its grip met the palm of my hand. Fight me, you psycho-ass mafia goons: I'm packing. I scan the backyard that lay outside my kitchen. Nothing but a few twitches in the leaves a tree gives off a sign of life from the daunting outdoors. I relax, but only a little. Chance already relentlessly drilled his whole "never drop your guard" speech into my head.

I pull the gun from my waistband and sit down on the couch. The fully loaded magazine falls to the safety of my right hand as my thumb catches the release. Screw Cali gun laws, my life's at stake here. I put the clip on the coffee table in front of me, and I pull the slide back, letting the loaded round jump up from its barrel and spin around in the air, finally landing in between the folds of the couch.

There's no alternative: I need that round. My hand plunges into the soft cushions, its digits scrambling like the limbs of a spider as it searches for the cylindrical shape that I know will save my ass sometime in the future. A coin, a paper clip, a stray bit of plastic. Wait. That's it! I close my finger and thumb around the sleek metal projectile, bringing it out of the depths of the soft fabric, and grab its storage unit. The bullet snaps back into the magazine with a satisfying clicking sound. It enters the chamber once again as I bump the mag into the gun and yank the slide back again, ready for a fight.

My eye gets caught on an old photo. Somehow, Dad's smile convinces me to pick up the ghost of his fiftieth birthday. There we are, a newly-born pentagenarian and his teenage son, fresh out of high school. I was...what, nineteen that day? Damn, and now he's sixty-seven. That fiftieth birthday bash was the first time I drank. A snort of laughter jets out of my nose. Dad was so proud of me when he saw that half-empty can in my hand.

I turn the picture over so the back of the frame now faces towards me. Using the tiny little latch device that keeps the back from falling off, the photo is freed from its felt fetters. I lift the back up to reveal the little description Mom wrote on the reverse side of the photo.

Robert celebrating his 50th with Adam. Looking great, guys!

Something vibrates in my pocket, shaking me out of my nostalgia. Just as well, too. Gotta be on my guard. My free hand dives into my pants and pulls out my phone. The little digi-sphere thing shakes. Its holographic display reads "Chance." And to think that touch screens were state-of-the-art five years ago...

"Yeah, go ahead," I prompt it.

It beeps in reply as a hologram of Chance, with his hands on the wheel and a seatbelt across his chest, arches his eyebrows over his cop glasses. Typical.

"Adam," he says urgently. "Got some bad news for you. Just got a call from HQ. Someone intercepted a call from a couple mafia hitmen. They're headed to your house right now. Drop your cocks and grab your Glocks, gentlemen. You'll have to hold out until I get there."