I saw him lean over by the car, and the passenger side window rolled down – and there he was, wearing this creepy clown mask that covered his whole head: Mr. Mask.
The dealer opened the briefcase for him, and I saw a flash of money – stacks of hundred dollar bills, it looked like. Mr. Mask stared at the money for a while, adding up the total in his head, I guessed, and then he took the briefcase from the dealer. In return, he handed the dealer a backpack which was bulging with something – a whole bunch of Rocket, I assumed.
Why the hell hadn't I brought my phone? Damn it! This was essentially a job for the police, but with no way to contact them, it was either intervene now or let them walk. There was no doubt they’d be armed, but hopefully they weren't actually proficient at using their weapons. Even if both of them had knives they wouldn’t be difficult to handle, but if both of them had guns — and the odds were they would — that might be a bit more challenging.
The bottom line, though, was that a lot of kids' lives and futures were on the line, and I had to act. I had to act quickly before the bastards took off.
I removed my nine-millimeter from its concealed holster beneath my shirt hem and eased out from behind the dumpster.
“Hands in the air!” I shouted. “You with the mask, hands where I can see them. Slowly, get out of the car. You with the bag, get down on the ground, face down! Hands flat!”
The drug dealer turned and stared at me with surprise, and he dropped the bag of drugs. He started to comply with my orders, thinking I was a cop, but then Mr. Mask spoke.
“Don't listen to that chump, Wilson – that's no cop, that's the dumbass principal of JFK!”
The drug dealer, evidently named Wilson, froze in mid movement, unsure of what to do. I had no choice but to stay the course.
“It doesn't matter that I'm not a cop! This is a citizen's arrest! You two are dealing in narcotics! Now get out of the car and get on the ground!”
“Or what?” sneered Mr. Mask. “What are you going to do, cowboy?”
"If you don't comply, I'm gonna be forced to use this.”
“I wonder how fast you are, cowboy,” Mr. Mask chidded. “Because mine's already in my hand.”
Then, before I could even move, he whipped his hand up and took a shot at me with a pistol he had been concealing behind the car door. The shot took me in the left shoulder and the force of it punched me rapidly off my feet; one minute I was looking at Mr. Mask and Wilson, the next I was laid out on the concrete, flat on my back and gasping for breath.
“Get the hell outta here!” I heard Wilson shout.
The Mercedes screeched its tires as it took off fast, and I heard footsteps bolting down the alley as Wilson fled on foot.
“Shit,” I groaned, reaching up for my left shoulder with my right hand.
I felt the wound, and it wasn't good. Blood was oozing out and was quickly soaking through my shirt. So much for being all dressed up for the evening. Now what was I gonna do? I didn't want to go to a hospital if I could help it – that would bring on way too much publicity, and set me up for a lot of questions that I didn't want to have to answer, because that would mean my cover would be totally blown.
But I sure as hell couldn't just shrug off a gunshot wound. I had to do something. Now I really, really wished I had brought my phone with me. Wishing, however, wasn't going to achieve a damn thing, though. I had to do something, and I had to do it now.
I scrambled up onto my feet, swaying and feeling groggy. Maybe there was a cheap clinic here that could help me. I had to at least try before giving up and calling an ambulance. I staggered out of the alley, looking up and down the street, hoping and praying for the slim chance that there'd be somewhere nearby where I could go.
And that's when I saw it – a sign for a veterinarian. But not just any vet – Jimmy M. Knight, veterinarian. I stumbled across the road, and hope blazed through me as I saw that a light was still on inside the vet's practice; someone was still there at this hour. I staggered over to the door and bashed on it.
“We're closed!” shouted a familiar voice, a voice I hadn't heard for years.
“Even for old Navy SEAL buddies?” I shouted back, hoping it was indeed the Jimmy I thought it to be.
“No way... no freakin' way!” the voice shouted back. “Everett James? Is that you?”
“Yeah, it's me, now get your ass out here and open up!”
A short but powerfully-built man with thinning brown hair and a bushy goatee came shuffling out of the back, with a bunch of keys dangling from his meaty paw.
He saw me through the glass door, and his eyes lit up.
“It is you, Everett! Damn, bro, what on earth are you doing here?”
He opened the door and then saw my shoulder.
“Oh man, Everett, what the hell happened?”