One (9 left; 4 in the shop, 5 outside, 2 stopped vehicles)
Half way across the burning stretch of pavement, Griff realized that someone was shooting from the alleyway.
“Fuck,” he swore, swerving out of the way of what he perceived as an ambush. His hands lifted to try and protect his head; Grimed barked and growled, dodging in front of him and forcing Griff’s direction. He followed the dog, trusting in its keen senses.
But the bullets weren’t aimed at him, not the ones coming from the alley at least. Behind Griff, another of the vehicles took a hit, swerving out of control and hitting a wall hard. Griff felt the wave of heat like a brand and for a moment he almost just stopped, the desire to double over and keep low from the heat overwhelming.
It was sheer determination mixed with Grimes nipping at his ankles that kept him moving. Hand wrapped around his bleeding side, Griff hardly even noticed that Grimes was leading him right in the direction of where he’d previously considered there to be an ambush. Apparently the dog was at least able to tell friend from foe. As Grimes disappeared into the darkened space – and thankfully no shots or whimpering sounds followed – Griff decided that it was his best bet. Even if whoever was in there wasn’t a friend they at least had a common enemy.
Griff was three steps short of relative safety when the thugs answered fire with fire. Bullets ripped the opening of the alley apart, splintering brick and spraying glass like rain. It also cut off Griff’s route. A quick pivot of the ankle had Griff grunting in frustration but kept him alive. Gritting his teeth and pre-emptively squeezing his eyes shut at what he knew would hurt, Griff threw his unwounded side at the buildings door.
He staggered through with all the grace of a star struck intern and as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he came to the realization that he was in an old barber shop. Not that any of that mattered, but already his mind was racing with ideas of what could be useful in a fight; what was flammable.
Griff pressed his back to the wall near the door and tried to count the oncoming footsteps in his head. One. Two. Three-four-five. Heavy footsteps sped up as the first of the raiders prepared to come crashing in through the door. Griff could feel his heart racing, his pulse tearing at the back of his throat; it warmed his open side as fresh blood trickled.
The door burst open as the first of the goons came for him. Quick as a viper, Griff grabbed the raider by the scruff of the neck, almost coat-hanging him in the process. With his left hand on the door, Griff yanked the guy’s torso through the opening, using the man’s own shoulder to anchor his body against the door frame. The door itself was Griff’s weapon and he walloped it closed around the man’s head until the goon was putty in his hands. Griff shoved his back out to the street and his friends before dashing further into the darkness of the room. He slipped behind an overturned display counter, his feet crunching over glass and dried up shaving cream.
As the door burst open and someone growled, “Find the son of a whore,” Griff rolled his head to keep watch. His hiding place wouldn’t protect him for long and he had to be ready the moment someone rounded the cabinet. As he did so, a small smirk crossed his lips as his eyes fell on a smashed up display beside him. Maybe he’d seen too many actors do it in his time, but he actually gave into temptation and silently mouthed ‘fucking motherlode’ at what was sitting so innocently behind him.
Carefully reaching through the broken glass, Griff pulled out two antique barber razors. With one in each hand, his head against the wood and his body buzzing with adrenaline, Griff waiting for the opportune moment to strike.