Jack Thompson's Arc

Chapter 2 of 25

The tower door swung wide before Jack could knock. Three men filled the frame, hands already on their guns. Jack saw the setup for what it was. A trap, dressed up as an answer. He backed off the step, dragging his bad leg, and limped out into the open paved circle that fronted the tower. He planted his shotgun against the stones and tried to read their faces. None of them spoke. The middle one drew first. The shot cracked off the old walls and Jack moved on instinct, throwing his good hand up. His body came apart in a rush of paper and ink. A cloud of playing cards spun where he had stood, and the bullet sliced clean through nothing. When he pulled himself back together on the far side of the circle, something else came with him. Blackjack. Cold pressed up behind his eyes. His own heartbeat went quiet. His hand started to rise on its own, steady as a dead man's. Then he saw them. The tables under the umbrellas next door. Coffee cups frozen halfway to mouths. A dozen faces watching, kids among them. If he slipped here, this whole street would have a new poster by morning. Jack jammed his free hand into his coat pocket and closed his fingers around the dice. Black and red, smooth, warm from his body. A gift from someone who had believed he was worth giving things to. He squeezed until the corners bit his palm. The cold drew back. His heartbeat returned, loud and his own. Blackjack sank, grudging, beneath the surface. Jack let out a slow breath, lifted his shotgun off the stones, and turned to face the three men with the dice still tight in his fist.