Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story, G.P. Sorrells [reading comprehension books TXT] 📗

more level playing field. The trick was doing something just dumb enough not to require lethal force as a response. Micah kept his head down, humming the intro to All Along the Watchtower as he glanced upward at the advancing guard. The other guard wasn’t visible, but Micah couldn’t waste time waiting to see what had become of the other man.

Besides, if I can get Tweedle-Dumb out of here before Tweedle-Dee comes back, I’m golden. He continued to fiddle with the keys, but slowly retracted his hand as the gap between the two men shrank.

“Final warning.” The guard was mere feet away now. “Step away from the gate. If you stick around, you’ll be in for some shit you really will not want to experience.”

“Thanks for playing,” Micah said in an odd sing-song manner meant to insinuate a level of intoxication befitting of his actions. He stepped back and pulled out his phone, snapping copious amounts of pictures of nothing while acting as though there was indeed some sort of method to his madness that could cause a metaphorical headache for the guard. During it all, he swiped a couple times and began rolling footage on a video he would never watch. “See you later, asshole.”

And with that, he ran. Like clockwork, the guard punched a button on the wall near the gate, a sort of failsafe meant to open the rolling behemoth in the event a quick exit was vital. He was out before it slid three feet.

When he first crossed the threshold from the fortress to the city, his eyes met with nothing particularly strange. It wasn’t until he turned the nearby corner that he glimpsed Micah’s leg darting beside an abandoned home a block away. The guard chased after him, slowing as he reached the home. It was eerily quiet as the guard made his way inside.

“Where you at, you little sonofabitch?” The man seemed uncertain, as though for all the time spent in the gym, he still found himself terrified of unfamiliar places. Even more if they were dark and foreboding. All that greeted his question was silence. He took a few steps forward, examining the surrounding room, hoping to gather some intel that might help him figure out who the hell he had been chasing. Perhaps even provide him with some inclination as to his current whereabouts. Content the main floor was empty, he walked up a set of stairs, turning the corner into more emptiness. “I’m going to give you to the count of…”

Micah cut his demand short, pistol raised. “Drop the gun.”

“Calm down, man,” the guard pleaded. He hadn’t ever stared down the barrel over a gun, and he hoped he’d live long enough to have nightmares about this one moment.

Micah fired a shot at the wall near the guard’s head, causing the man to jump. “I’m the one who makes demands around here, not you.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” the guard said. He tried to maintain his composure but felt a trickle in his pants as he set the rifle on the ground. “I just thought maybe we could come to some sort of agreement. You know, maybe you go wherever you wanted to go, and I’ll act like I never saw you.”

“We’re past the stage where amicable agreements are normally possible, wouldn’t you agree?” The guard sulked, resigned to an end he somehow hadn’t envisioned when he traveled down the road of his chosen profession. In some ways, he likely knew death was an inevitability, but it hadn’t ever fully registered with him. “How often does he come here?”

The guard looked up, quizzical. “He? I’m not sure I know who you’re looking for. We’ve got a lotta guys come through here every day.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Blart,” Micah seethed.

“I’m not, man. Honest. It’s just, I’m not used to having a gun pointed at me, so it’s taking me a minute to wrap my head around it is all.”

“Well, isn’t that just precious?” Micah let the pistol slowly drift down, careful to adjust his aim. Motion ceased with an obvious line of sight of his heart.

The guard jumped back. “Hey, hey, hey, you don’t need to do that! Just refresh my memory and I can try to help you out.”

“Jimmy Castillo. He just rolled into your compound inside a limo with a few guys I didn’t recognize.”

“He’s been here a few times over the past two weeks. I never talk to him much, outside of maybe opening a door and telling him where the boss is at, but that’s it.”

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Micah knew he had to continue pushing, but he also needed to get something concrete out of the guard. “Any idea what they talk about?”

“No, I only ever hear bits and pieces. The boss usually… wait, what am I telling you any of this for? I don’t have to let you know a damn thing. Besides, the boss would kill me if he found out I squealed.”

Micah tightened his grip on the pistol. “What makes you think I won’t do the same if you keep your mouth shut?”

“True… but,” the guard said, shifting uneasily in place.

“No buts. Either you tell me what I want to know, or I’ll be sending you to an early grave. Your choice.”

“Ok, let me think.” The man stared around the room, a mixture of genuine thought and fight-or-flight response, desperate to find an exit. “I think Castillo has been working on a deal with the boss. He usually brings something with him to ease things, almost like an offering. He doesn’t stay awfully long either. It’s almost like he just does it for show, to give off this impression that he cares, but you know he doesn’t actually give a damn.”

“That sounds like Jimmy.”

“Honestly, the way things have been happening around here lately, it almost feels like the gun deal with the Good Ole Boys was rigged. It always felt too good to be true, you know.” The guard shifted his weight, ruminating about