him, brows bunched. “Yo, I’m callin’ the police.”
Her wails hit him in the gut, flooding him like ocean waves. Her pain, so tangible. She might be dead before help arrives. I have to do something.
“Shit! Hold this!” King transferred his art supplies bag into Shane’s grasp and broke through a crowd of people like a linebacker. His body felt electric, his need for speed amped as he tried desperately to reach her before she sustained yet another blow.
His adrenaline soared while his brain buzzed and drew dark scenarios, taking him asunder. Thunderous screams erupted and people began to scatter. He swallowed a wave of burgeoning regret, wondering about the sudden pandemonium. The glint of metal flashed as his limbs burned to restrain the man who held the firearm in one hand and the woman’s long, dark brown hair in the other, refusing to let go. No one had warned him of the weapon, and no one stepped forward to help the lady. Even in that moment of despair and panic, his brain registered a lack of surprise by the actions of many.
Denim and cotton clothing felt like fire on his body as he wrestled the man to the ground, in desperate need to get the gun out of his fucking hand. He took frantic gulps of air, his eyes straining. Keeping the bastard down on the ground, he managed to remove his grip on the woman’s tresses. She screamed when she was finally freed, her voice echoing. Rolling away, she left a mess of blood behind her. The vibration of another approaching train blended in with the deafening echo of bullets blasting from the chamber. People scattered and screams rent the space. The shots went off wildly in the air before he forced the bastard’s arm back and away from people. King rested his entire body on the guy’s chest and legs, forcing him to drop the gun. The man gargled something about being unable to breathe.
With a heavy thud, the gun slipped from his fingertips and landed on the concrete. King could feel the man attempting to break free, his bony, long limbs unable to gain leverage. The son of a bitch spit, gnashed his teeth, and cursed. Blood was smeared along his knuckles and his face was reddened and splotchy.
Out of the corner of King’s eye, he recognized Shane’s sneakers close by. Using the plastic art bag, his friend scooped the gun up like some evidence collecting pro, quickly wrapped it and tucked it against his chest. Most people had moved away from him, including the woman who’d been attacked. Shane stepped on the man’s hand, applying pressure. King heard a crack and crunch. Bones. The guy roared in pain. Shane’s mouth twisted with a satisfied smirk.
There was no way this son of a bitch was getting away with the two of them there. Everything happened in slow motion at that moment. A burst of hot and cold air mingled and covered him from head to toe. A crowd vacated the train while another entered and a new audience of people gathered, curious eyes trained on them. It didn’t take long for most to whip out their phones and begin the sickening process of recording him and the whole sordid scene, their devices mere feet from his face. Some were smiling and laughing.
He finally made eye contact with the man beneath him. The assailant’s dancing blue eyes, wispy wild blond hair, and unkempt reddish-brown mustache and beard made him appear all the more feral. It felt like an eternity, but was probably no more than a handful of minutes before the police and subway security arrived with the woman who’d been attacked in tow. King let the guy go when they were close enough, and in a matter of seconds, the police had him off the ground and put him in handcuffs. After one of the officers walked away with the man, King turned towards the woman. Her mascara was smeared, her shirt torn. Blood all over the place.
“Thank you,” she said with a shaky voice, then sniffed and wiped some snot off her nose with the back of her hand.
“You’re welcome.”
“I have his gun,” Shane announced.
In that instant, he sensed fear in his friend. Shane spoke as if he were afraid the police may harm him and overreact about the fact that he had the weapon. That he could be injured, or worse yet, killed for simply trying to help.
“Where?” one of the officers questioned, his tone