Coming soon . . . FIREPOWER

Sonny's busy gaze roamed the room, finally settled on the coffee table between them.

"Hey, Bob. How come you always wear cowboy boots?"

"I'm no cowboy, if that's what you mean. But I grew up wearing boots."

Bob looked at his feet up on the coffee table. Plain brown boots, scuffed around their tapered toes. Latest in a long line of serviceable shitkickers.

"They some kind of exotic leather?" Sonny asked.

"If you think 'cow' is exotic."

"I thought maybe you were one of those guys who collects different kinds of boots. Got a whole closet full at home. Python and ostrich hide. Shark."

"I'm not a nut for them. I just like boots. They're comfortable."

"But to work in? How do you run in them?"

"I don't run much."

Sonny gave him a prison-yard squint. "You're a bad man. You're too tough to run."

"I just don't like it much. I prefer sitting around. If I wanted to be on my feet all day, I'd be a mailman."

"Sometimes you gotta run," Sonny said. "Things get fucked up. Sometimes running's the best thing."

Bob took the Beretta out of his jacket's deep inside pocket, started screwing on his suppressor, too.

"See these babies?" Sonny turned his feet on the coffee table so Bob could admire his red-and-black Air Jordans. "That's superior footwear right there. Two hundred and sixty bucks."

"Hell, you can get three pair of boots for that."

"Yeah, but I can run faster and jump higher. Things get fucked up? I'll be first one over the fence."

Bob chewed on that a second, then said, "Things get that fucked, I've got to run?"


"Boots won't make a difference. Tie bricks to my feet, it won't matter. I'll be a running motherfucker."

"Maybe the other guy's wearing a nice pair of running shoes. Some cop, in good shape, younger than you. He'll chase your ass down."

"I hope he does it quick. Then I'll pop a cap in him, get it over with."

"He might pop you first."

"Either way, I won't have to run around no more."

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