Crotty was up on his knees, pointing the blinker at Juna.
Shongut aimed. BAM!
The shot ripped through Crotty’s throat, almost separating his head from his shoulders, killing him instantly. The blinker, the detonator, flew off into the grass.
Lynch lunged for it.
Weecho was on his hands and knees, crawling as fast as he could toward Juna.
Shongut shot again. BAM!
The shot kicked up dirt in Lynch’s face when he dove for the detonator.
Weecho got to Juna and yanked at the bomb vest straps. Pulled and twisted, finally ripped it off, swung it back to give it a heave.
Lynch was over there fumbling with the blinking detonator.
Weecho let the bomb vest fly, turned away and ducked.
Ka-WHOOM!
A huge fountain of dirt and driftwood and broken clamshells erupted at the edge of the meadow.
Weecho fell on top of Juna, shielding her from the falling debris.
Shongut ducked the fallout, raised his rifle and fired.
Lynch was zig-zagging away from the shots, away from the meadow, plowing through the reeds clutching the DVD player, making for the Donzi.
Weecho turned Juna onto her back, pressed his hand to the spurting hole in her thigh.
Shongut ran over and dropped to his knees. “I couldn’t think how else to do it. He was gonna take us all out.”
“Press your hand here,” Weecho said.
“This part I know, keep your hand where it is.” Shongut opened a pocket knife and slit the knots of the scarves around Juna’s eyes and mouth. “I was hoping I’d just wing her.”
Weecho bent close to her. “I know you’re hurting, hang in there.”
“Leg… What hap…” Juna’s voice slurry, eyes glassy.
“Take it easy,” Weecho said. “We’ll get you fixed up.”
Shongut, in corpsman mode, tied the scarves together and wound them around the wound. Weecho pulled his hand out when Shongut tightened the knot.
“We’ll get her in the skiff,” Shongut said. “There’s bandage left in the first aid kit. We can call ahead to be met.”
Weecho dug for his cell, remembered it was on the bottom of the bay.
And the skiff was about to become a non-option.
The chattering of an automatic weapon came from the channel at their backs, spurts of dirt kicking up around them. Weecho and Shongut whipped around and flung themselves flat on the grass.
Lynch was shooting from the moving Donzi, muzzle flashes flicking from an Uzi submachine gun he swept along the top of the reeds.
Weecho pulled the Beretta from the small of his back, stayed on his stomach and opened up. Shongut fired away with the lever action, the two of them clipping off reed tops, Lynch ducking out of sight.
Lynch swung the Donzi past the skiff, shooting at the stern, the skiff’s outboard bursting into flames.
Weecho and Shongut scrambled to their feet, firing past the flames, waterspouts chasing the Donzi as it disappeared around a bend.
YOU ARE READING
Weecho: First Shots
Teen FictionA hot young photographer shoots a conspiracy murder, has cops and the killer chasing after those pictures, hooks up with a fugitive punk girl to cover his back.
