“If you reach for that gun, I’ll shoot you, David. And you damn know I will, don’t you.”
David Logan was on his knees digging in the packed dirt near a gravesite in Riverview Cemetery in Trenton, New Jersey. His Sig Sauer lay just two feet from the hole he’d dug, and that was just about two feet too far for it to be of any use to him.
Sandra Hutchins, the person who had crept up on him, was pointing her .38 Special at David and he indeed had no doubt that she would shoot him.
“Twelve years is a long time to wait, Sandra,” said David. “You have even more patience than I do.”
“It was a long wait; I hid out waitressing at a truck stop on an interstate in Wisconsin for most of those twelve years. You owe me half the money from the job, and another quarter for the pain and suffering I put up with at that fuckin’ truck stop.”
David had been released from prison a year ago and had then waited for a time before retrieving the money from the bank job he and Sandra had pulled off. David had been arrested and sent to prison, but Sandra had slipped under the radar and escaped.
David had buried the money about a foot deep between two graves that appeared to be old enough that they probably no longer had any visitors. He had refused to tell Sandra where he had hidden the loot. Sandra had been shadowing David since his release.
“Pain and suffering?” said David. “Hey, I was in the fuckin’ slammer, ya know. I was an accountant; hard time was no picnic for me.”
“How about you just shut up and keep diggin’ so we can go our separate ways,” said Sandra.
A man holding a large caliber pistol with a silencer stepped out of the shadows.
“You didn’t think I’d risk coming here to pick up all this dough without backup, did ya?” said David. “Eddie, meet Sandra.”
Eddie nodded at Sandra and casually pointed his pistol in her direction.
“Great minds think alike,” said Sandra. “Come on out, Johnny. Johnny, meet David and Eddie.
Johnny also carried a pistol equipped with a silencer.
“Looks like a standoff,” said David.
Johnny looked over at Eddie, their eyes met, and some silent communication passed between them.
There was a “pffft!” as Johnny shot Sandra in the back of the head. David lunged for his Sig but was too late as a “pffft!” from Eddie’s gun caught him in the forehead.
“What say we put all the guns on a little pile over there and finish diggin’ up the money,” said Eddie.
“Works for me,” said Johnny.by
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Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for over 60 years. At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious writer. He has had flash fiction published recently in Black Petals, Yellow Mama, Theme of Absence, Near To the Knuckle, Bewildering Stories, Flash Fiction Press, The Story Shack, Spelk, Shotgun Honey, and a number of other online and print journals. Roy is currently the submissions editor at Yahara Prairie Lights, which puts him in the enviable position of sometimes being able to accept his own work. That site is at yaharaprairie.wordpress.com