The humming ceiling fan was the only constant in the silence between Bron and Ortega as midday dragged on. The last customer Bron had escorted out the door.
Ortega had finished cleaning what needed cleaning and arranging what needed arranging.
He was behind the counter.
Bron was across the room, by the wall beside the door, his back against it. Smoking.
Ortega's mouth twitched. That was his eighth cigarette, assuming he hadn't lost count. He wanted to tell Bron to stop, but Bron's don't-fuck-with-me demeanour said, well… don't fuck with me.
So Ortega kept to himself. Bobbing his head to the stereo system on full blast. Begrudgingly accepting Bron's music taste, which was very similar to his. A mix of hip-hop, trap, and R&B that made the store seem like a gang hideout and a morning club at the same time.
Bron was still, and there seemed to be a permanent shadow on his face as he smoked more and more. Ortega could see a visible storm cloud forming above the asshole's head. Almost made him seem like less of an asshole. Almost.
Suddenly, the double doors swung open and two men slunk in. They had balaclavas on their faces.
One of them bellowed, "Stop the music!" While the other pulled out a gun.
The screamer saw Ortega behind the counter and cursed. "Shit! You again…"
He came over to the counter and slammed his palm on it.
"You better have something good for me this time," he said, pointing his gun at Ortega.
Ortega's heart was beating fast, not out of fear this time but from adrenaline and anticipation.
When the two robbers came in, after they pushed open the door, it had swung wide and completely removed Bron from their periphery. They looked around the store now, and even when they glanced behind them, they saw no one.
That was because Bron had hidden himself behind the open door.
At that, the thieves made a silent signal, and one went back to close the door.
Ortega swallowed as he felt the cold butt of the gun press against the underside of his jaw.
"Now… where's the fucking money? Right where we left off at, kid? And you better not try anything fucking stupid…"
Ortega let out a hybrid of a chuckle and a gasp as his breath shortened.
"Hey, why the fuck are you smiling?" The man fisted Ortega's shirt. "You think this shit is fucking funny? That I won't shoot you?" The gun clicked.
Aaaargh!
A scream ripped through the air and jolted everyone.
The man spun back just in time to see his comrade fall unconscious after Bron brutally elbowed his jaw.
Bron held the man at gunpoint with his comerade's pistol.
"I thought I told you fuckers to fuck off after last time!" he roared.
The man exchanged a quick look between Ortega and Bron and was quick to tug Ortega closer, reinforcing Ortega as the hostage.
The implication was very clear. You shoot me, I shoot him.
Ortega was frozen, eyes wide open. He looked to Bron. Bron's jaw was locked, and when their gazes met, he made a subtle signal with his eyes.
The man didn't miss it. He doubled down on his grip immediately, and Ortega winced.
But Ortega could feel how the man was shaking. He was desperate. The way his eyes shifted about the store frantically stood in stark contrast to Bron's calm stillness.
Bron's gun remained pointed at the man, eyes narrowed in unwavering focus.
Shit could hit the fan any minute.
Ortega's eyeballs began to dance in calculation.
The robber holding Ortega at gunpoint was fisting his shirt tight but still had to keep an eye on Bron.
The split focus caused a lapse.
Ortega took advantage when the gun lowered a little.
Ortega gripped the man's gun wrist with both hands and yanked. The man, however, was surprisingly strong. He stood his ground. Ortega was in deep shit and couldn't let go as the man yanked back, pulling Ortega close and crack! headbutting his nose.
Pepper shot up Ortega's brain as a dull throb laced through it.
But Ortega didn't let go. And he didn't try to pry the gun out of the man's grip either.
He only redirected it so the gun wouldn't accidentally kill him when the man pulled the trigger.
Bang!
He did.
The vibration shook Ortega as something shattered nearby, but he did not let go.
Ortega hadn't accounted for the man's other hand being free.
He didn't see the punch coming.
The fist smashed into his face, pain crawling hot and deep, making him groan and lose his balance. Still, his double grip on the man's wrist never faltered.
As he fell back, Ortega yanked again, and the man rolled over the counter and fell on top of him.
At the last moment, Ortega twisted to his side and locked both elbows around the man's arm. Then crashed his weight down on the limb. Freeing the gun.
Relief.
Aaaaaaaaaargh!
The man screamed beneath Ortega like a banshee bitch.
Ortega grabbed the gun, shuffled to a better position, and aimed it at the man.
His breath caught at what he saw.
The man lay before him, screaming, clutching his arm.
Bent at a very, very awkward angle.
"Fuuuuuck! Fuuuuuck my a-a-arm!" the man cried, sweating and snot-nosed.
Ortega's hands shook.
Something climbed up his throat, but he swallowed it back down.
His stomach churned sickly as the man's screams burned his ears and the world spun.
The ceiling began to shift and blur as something hammered his skull.
Then everything went black.