John and Benny dive simultaneously behind the blue Chesterfield, knocking over a marble-topped mahogany coffee table. Around them, bullets smack into the eggshell colored wall. With two loud thuds they land ungracefully. Stucco decoration rains down on them.

„I’m too old for this kind of crap!“ John grunts grabbing his revolver and the bag full with money.

„You have no right to open your idiocy vent!“ A bullet sings past Peter’s left ear. „Ever! Again!“ He grits his teeth, and peeks around the bits of the sofa. Ammo eats at the wooden floor boards, as he retreats.

The splinters jump, like popcorn on a hot stove.

“One at ten o’clock, the other at – what the!?“ John stops dead in his tracks to look at  Benny confused. He mouths a silent ‘what’. „Hostage?” Benny points vaguely to the other side of the sofa. Unfazed, John resumes crawling towards the mahogany table.

Blue and red lights flicker and sirens wail somewhere below. In the middle of the room lies a man, tied to an overturned chair. He faces the sofa and tugs desperately at his ropes. „Come on,“ he  grunts. Someone sneezes.

This is bad. At least, those thugs won’t fire much longer. Police will storm in soon.

Benny jumps out of his cover and runs to the man on the ground. His switchblade clicks in his left hand and saws at the knots.

„You imbecile!“ John roars from behind the table.

 


pic: Suzanne Cordeiro AFP/ Getty Images/ Texas church shooting Nov 17

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