Page 132 of South of Nowhere

The man’s eyes went wide.

He pulled the trigger again.

Now, nothing. Not even a click.

Before he’d ascended into the mine entrance, knowing Millwood was here, Shaw had pried the Hornady Defender slugs out of the shells—liked he’d done on the bee project—but left the primer caps in, so that if Millwood knew guns and pulled the slide back to look at the chamber, he’d see brass and believe it was loaded with live rounds.

Shaw shook his head. “That was not wise.” He pulled the gun from Millwood’s hand, hoping he’d make a move.

It was unprofessional. But Shaw wanted badly to take him down, plant the man firmly on his back, knock the breath out of him. Have pain radiate the way pain did in a moment like that. Efficient and unstoppable.

But sadly, John Millwood was in gaping mode. Frozen.

Shaw swapped the fake mag for a real one, and worked the slide,ejecting the brass in the chamber and loading a live round. The gun went back into his holster.

“Now, turn around.”

“You can’t do this! You’re not a cop.”

Shaw removed zip ties from his right rear pocket.

“Bullshit. That’s illegal.”

Not true. Citizen arrests were authorized under California Penal Code Section 837, if someone saw a felony committed in their presence.

“Turn around.”

Millwood gave a cold smile and his hands curled into fists. He stepped forward.

Ah, thank you, Colter Shaw thought.

It didn’t turn out to be as much fun as he would have liked.

Millwood was probably a very good domestic abuser but when it came to somebody who fought back, well, he didn’t do so great.

After his first swing, Shaw simply ducked, stepped in and performed a variation of the takedown he’d been thinking of just a moment earlier: left forearm against Millwood’s chest, right sweeping into the back of his knee. Then a swift push and lift.

Down he went.

The fun was over all too fast, but therewasa delightfully hard landing.

Wheezing and gasping, the man clawed at his chest.

Fiona Lavelle looked on with some pleasure.

Shaw rolled the debilitated man over and zip-tied him.

“Too tight?”

“Ah, ah…”

But that wasn’t in response to the ties. Shaw assessed they were fine.

He walked to a pile of rocks near where Fiona had set up her little home. He lifted his burner phone from where he’d set it earlier,before Millwood’s arrival. The unit was in live-stream selfie mode so he was looking at himself. In the lower right-hand corner was a miniature TC McGuire.

“How’d it work out?” Shaw asked.

“Hollywood,” the man offered. “As they say, it’s in the can.”

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