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There was only the sound of rain, striking the street and running through the gutters. It drummed against Derrick’s ears, louder and more insistent than it had any right to be, as if the gunshots that rang out only a few seconds ago had torn away some imaginary film around Derricks’ ears, and opened them up for the first time. They both winced as a clap of thunder pierced the night; and then the tension seeped out of them. Good; it was only thunder. Not more gunshots.

“Derrick, you locked the door, right?”

“Yeah.”

Tony got up and flicked the lights off. They kept the shades closed at all times, so passers-by wouldn’t know what was in the shop, but any sign that people were home would attract predators. This was White Leopard territory, but they had a shakey hold on it. In one of Chinatown’s worst, most desperate shootouts, rival gangs intruding on White Leopard turf had busted into homes and shops, and took hostages as human shields. This ended in tragedy for every one involved, since the White Leopards had been callous enough to shoot through the hostages, killing the enemy gangsters, while still taking massive losses themselves, partly thanks to friendly fire. When the sun had risen the next morning, the survivors, Chinatown residents whom the White Leopards were ostensibly protecting, had poked their heads out of the rubble only to find the White Leopards waiting there, demanding more protection money.

It was almost completely dark in the shop, save for the LEDs and small displays on the instruments. Tony got up, shining his cell phone around to avoid knocking into something. “I’ll get the gun,” he said. Tony kept a small caliber pistol that he had bought off an ex-cop in the city. Derrick had never seen him shoot someone with it, but maybe this would be the day.

Derrick picked up a chair and wedged it underneath the front door’s doorknob. He grunted as he hefted the box of parts that he had spent the week organizing, and set it at the foot door as well. This would buy them time if someone were to force their way in: enough time for Tony to line up a shot, hopefully.

Derrick picked the dishes up and walked them over to the sink, giving them a quick rinse before stacking them. He would wash them later, but it felt wrong to just leave them on table, regardless of the danger. He dried his hands, and leaned up against the wall, listening to his thumping heartbeat, when Tony came out of his room. He pulled a chair up next to Derrick and sat in it. They were facing the entrance, but half concealed by the wall separating the shop and the kitchen.

Tony’s gun glinted in the dim, green light of the small LEDs.

“You scared, kid?”

“I mean, yeah, I am. What the fuck are we gonna do if five of them come?”

“I’ll shoot em dead.”

“Yeah, but you’ve only got one gun. They’ll probably have one gun each.”

Tony laughed nervously. “You know me. I’m the fastest gun in the Eas—uh, West.”

Derrick grabbed the meat cleaver from the dishes rack. It was one of the few things he was able to salvage from his parent’s restaurant after he had recovered from his surgery at Hack Alley. It had outlived his parents on the day of the shooting, and it might outlive him too today. It was heavy and thick, with a solid wooden handle, and bit through meat and bone with ease. If he tossed it at someone coming through the door, and it hit true, they’d be split right open.

More gunshots rang from outside: a symphony of them, blasting back and forth as if calling for each other in the night, and the reverberations of each volley getting closer and closer to the shop, punctuating the hum of the machinery, and the sound of their shallow breathing. Just focus on the door. If someone comes through, throw the cleaver.

And then, after a burst of gunfire like the finale of a fireworks show, it was quiet.

The rain droned on, unmoved by the ferocious gunfire, and its sudden disappearance. The chair creaked as Derrick shifted in it, keeping his legs from falling asleep. Minutes passed with no further gunshots, and Tony took a deep breath and hung his head, letting the pistol dangle at his side.

“You sure you wanna stay in this town, Derrick? Could’ve died tonight. I almost wanna leave here myself, but I’ve got the business to think of—”

THUMP THUMP THUMP.

“OPEN UP.”

The box of parts that Derrick had set against the door rattled, and some pieces jumped out of the box, scattering across the floor.

Tony shushed, and pointed his pistol at the entrance. Even in the dark, Derrick could see the gun was shaking.

THUMP THUMP THUMP.

The voice coming from outside was hoarse and overwhelmingly loud. “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, WE NEED HELP. SOMEONE’S SHOT. IF YOU DON’T OPEN IT, WE’RE COMING IN.” There was some murmuring—maybe the voice had a friend—but it was drowned out by the rain. “We don’t want to hurt you!” a different voice yelled out.

THUMP THUMP THUMP. The pounding continued.

Derrick half-crouched behind the table, far from Tony so he wouldn’t hit him, and raised the meat cleaver. He gripped it so tightly that the blood pumping through his hands gave the cleaver the semblance of a heartbeat.

The thumping stopped, and was replaced by unintelligible shouting. The front door started creaking against its hinges, the sound of it filling the room, and then it was freed with an awful snap.

Tony yelled as he shot at the door, which stayed upright, despite having been torn off the doorway. Whoever had ripped off the door was staying behind it. One peak out from behind the door, and Derrick was ready to toss his cleaver right at—

“STOP SHOOTING.”

—Tony kept shooting. Mid barrage, he slipped off the chair, and the gun clattered onto the ground along with him.

The door fell forward, and Derrick hurled the cleaver, only for it to bounce off something in the darkness with a clang.

As Tony got back up with his gun, a group of men who smelled like blood filed in through the entrance, and the man who had held the door up stomped forward, crushing some spare parts under his weight. Someone flicked on the lights near the entrance, to reveal the absolute unit of a man in the center. He was wearing an exoskeleton—custom-made for sure, given his size—and wearing two shields on his arms.

Derrick held his hands up as the men pointed guns at him and Tony. They were young, and rough-looking, and some were still bleeding. Their shoes squeaked on the floor, tracking blood and rainwater across it. One of them snatched Tony’s gun, and motioned for him to sit back in the chair. A pair of others supported a bloodied elderly man in a suit between the two, and seated him in another chair.

“Goddamn, I dropped the fucking thing,” the large man said, his voice rumbling like the storm’s thunder. He picked the door back up and placed it back in its frame, fumbling a bit as he struggled to make it stay in place.

“Who’s the doctor here?” snapped a younger man, also in a suit.

“I am,” Tony said. “I own the shop. What the hell you do want?”

“Like I told you earlier, we need medical help. Get this man to your operating room right now.” He pointed to the elderly man, who seemed barely conscious. Several blotches of blood stained his shirt, and his face was practically drenched in it. “We’ll leave after he’s safe. You don’t have a choice; we’re White Leopards.”

Tony scrunched up his face and shook his head. “Okay, fine. Let me up and I’ll get to work.”

***

Post-chapter author note:

I've always imagined what I would do if my home got invaded in the middle of the night. Thankfully I haven't had to deal with that yet, since I wouldn't be nearly as composed as Derrick and Tony.