The Python at the Playground

I caught Greg’s gun hand in both of mine and wrenched his wrist down and away. A sharp crack snapped through the garage.

Pain flashed across his face. His grip broke, and the pistol struck the floor with a metallic clatter.

I sent it skidding out of reach with my boot. Then I drove into Greg before he could recover, striking him hard enough to leave him unconscious on the concrete.

For a moment, I could only stand there and drag air into my lungs. My hip throbbed beneath my shirt, but I barely registered it.

Toby was still down there. Marcus was coming for him. That was all that mattered.

I found zip ties among the equipment near Greg and hauled his limp body toward the industrial tool rack. My arms strained as I got him upright against the metal frame.

I secured his wrists and ankles to the rack with the ties, pulling each one tight. He would stay put.

I retrieved the handgun and tucked it into my waistband. Then I ran for the truck.

Ohio sunlight hit me hard as I burst out of the garage. I reached my F-150, climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine.

There was no time to buckle in. I reversed out fast, then pressed the accelerator until the truck fishtailed down Elmwood Drive.

Oakridge General seemed impossibly far away. I tore through intersections, blared the horn, and clamped both hands around the wheel until my knuckles hurt.

Hold on, Toby. Please hold on.

I took the ramp into the hospital’s underground loading area too fast. Tires squealed on the concrete as I swung toward the service entrance.

The hidden loading docks lay ahead. I left the truck near the restricted utility doors, engine still running, and got out with the gun in hand.

Blood from my hip had soaked into my jeans. I ignored the sticky warmth and swiped my master utility card.

The lock released with a click. I shoved through and plunged back into the hospital’s lower levels.

The sub-basement swallowed me in steam and noise. Generators droned somewhere beyond the walls, and the air tasted of heat and machinery.

I raced along the narrow corridor, boots skidding where grease slicked the floor. Every second seemed to stretch.

Then a shrill mechanical whine cut through the rumble.

An angle grinder. Metal shrieked beneath its spinning blade, and orange sparks flickered at the far end of the passage.

I raised the pistol and moved toward the sound. A turn brought the tool crib into view.

Marcus stood at the chain-link cage, dressed now in dark tactical gear. He leaned into an angle grinder, cutting through the lock I’d put on the gate.

The blade chewed at the metal. Sparks burst around his hands and lit the cramped space in brief, fiery flashes.

Inside, Brutus hurled himself against the mesh. The huge mastiff slammed into it again and again, fighting to keep Marcus away from Toby.

The fence buckled under the impacts. Brutus snarled and snapped at the wire, his fury filling the room beneath the grinder’s scream.

Toby had retreated to the farthest corner. He crouched low, shaking, both hands clamped over his ears.

His eyes were squeezed shut. Seeing him trapped there made my chest tighten, but I forced myself to focus on the man at the gate.

“Marcus!” I shouted.

I aimed at the center of his vest. He stopped cutting and lifted the grinder from the lock. Its blade spun down with a fading whine.

He let the tool drop to the concrete and faced me. His expression barely changed when he saw the gun.

“You’re late, David,” he said. One hand drifted toward the knife strapped to his thigh. “That lock’s almost through. Go ahead—shoot.”

A section of the lock hung nearly severed. Marcus glanced at it, then back at me, as if the outcome had already been decided.

“You’re a mechanic, not a killer,” he said. “Your hands are shaking. You won’t pull the trigger.”

He was right about the shaking. The pistol felt wrong in my grip, and I had never fired at a person. Marcus saw the doubt and edged nearer.

His fingers curled around the knife handle. Brutus crashed against the cage again, and Toby stayed folded in on himself behind the dog.

“I don’t need to kill you,” I told him. My voice came out steadier than my hands.

I shifted the barrel away from Marcus. Instead, I lined it up with the corroded hinge at the top of the gate.

The shot cracked through the boiler room. The bullet struck the rusted metal, and the hinge broke apart.

The chain-link gate sagged inward. Marcus turned toward the opening, and Brutus gathered himself to charge.