Chapter 1

I jumped back behind the counter when I saw the gunman point his pistol in my general direction. Shit! Shit! Shit! Why, oh why, did I let my pacifist mother talk me into leaving my own pistol at home today? This was my first day as a part-time worker in Mr. Holsen’s bakery shop, and she insisted that I didn’t need a gun to be a bakery clerk. If I live through today, this will be the last time I listen to her stupid pacifist talk. I love my mother, but she sure can be dumb about some things. Thank God, Dad doesn’t think like she does! In fact, I expect him to give me a hard time for not taking my gun with me, in spite of what she said.

That hop-head with the gun pointed my way didn’t even let Mr. Holsen open the cash register before he shot the poor old man. At least, there is a Glock G21.45 caliber automatic identical to mine on a shelf under the counter where the cash register is. If I can get to that before the bastard finds me, I will have a decent chance of surviving this robbery attempt.

Thank God, the perp panicked when he shot Mr. Holsen and ducked behind a display counter toward the front of the store. I only have about three meters to go to get to the pistol, so I stand a chance if I start moving now ... Ah, I feel a whole lot better now that I have a gun in my hand!

Just in time, too! The hop-head has stood up and is walking toward the cash register where I am sheltering. Well, I have no intention of “giving him a chance,” as some people would say. One more step and I will plug him in the chest from my prone position behind the counter. All I have to do is to reach around the end of the counter, and I will have him dead to rights.

I only needed to fire one .45 caliber bullet into his chest, and the would-be robber was gone from this world. Judging from the small amount of blood that he lost, I think that my bullet must have penetrated his heart. Well, I am no longer a fool—I jammed my pistol into my belt and kicked the dead man’s gun away from him. It was for no good reason, but that was what my teacher had drummed into my head. Say what you will about my high school’s curriculum, we have a damned fine instructor in our shooting and self-defense class.

My next job was to call 911 for EMS (Emergency Medical Services) to try to save Mr. Holsen’s life. He was shot with a .22 revolver, and I’ll bet that the bullet was a Short, not even a Long Rifle.

The 911 operator got right on the job when I told her about Mr. Holsen’s wound, and she had the ambulance and technicians dispatched within a few seconds after I gave her the address. The medical technicians did a great job and told me that Mr. Holsen would be OK in a few days. All he had was a scalp wound that had knocked him unconscious when the bullet bounced off his skull. He might be in bed for a couple of days with the world’s worst headache, but he should have no permanent damage, except for the scar.

A little while later, the cops showed up and dumped the corpse in the meat wagon for carting to the morgue. There would be a routine autopsy to find out what drug he was high on, but there was nothing for me to worry about. One of the cops complimented me on the quality of my shot and asked where I had learned to shoot. I told him, and he commented that Mr. DuBois was a damned good teacher. I agreed, and he left after taking my statement about the attempted robbery.

Shortly thereafter, I was interviewed by a TV reporter about the case. She told me afterward that I might not make the news if there was any big time newsworthy activity. However, she did say that it was not usual for a high school junior to foil a robbery, so I might make the local news segment on the strength of that. She thanked me for the interview and left with the camera man.

I was stuck with cleaning up the mess after the cops left. It was such an open and shut case that there was no need to collect evidence: blood, etc.

Of course, I didn’t expect much to be made of the episode, since it was not uncommon for shop owners and their employees to shoot robbers. It was expected that the business people would shoot to kill. Ever since the Supreme Court had handed down that series of rulings about a citizen’s 2^nd Amendment rights to own and bear arms, most people were carrying handguns. From this, the next logical step was to make shooting and self-defense a required course in high school. Dad had presented me with my own Glock on my 16^th birthday, the age when everybody, male and female, was expected to carry a loaded piece. The feeling was that by now, in 2029, everybody should be able to look after himself.

It all started back in June of 2008 when the Supreme Court broke the back of the gun control laws. By 2025, there were no restrictions on who could own or carry a gun. The self defense argument had grown from inside the home to anytime at any place—if you were legitimately in danger, you were free to defend yourself.

First, in small towns, and later, in larger communities, the local government realized that they could save a lot of tax money if citizens would take over their own protection. Police were taken off handling routine cases of individual endangerment; if you were in danger, it was up to you to protect yourself. No more calls for spousal abuse—you’ve got a gun, use it! No more calls for house break-ins—you’ve got a gun, use it! No more calls for robberies at small businesses—you’ve got a gun, use it! And so it went. Police still investigated murders, arson, or other big crimes that a citizen could not be expected to handle, himself, but the small stuff was no longer on their action list.

The principle was carried to extremes. No more traffic laws, just a suggested code of conduct. Any accidents on the highway were between you and your insurance agent. It was amazing how much tax money was saved by getting rid of traffic cops. No driver’s licenses, no license plates, no car inspections—all of these things saved tax money. What more could the public ask for?

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That evening, I made the 11:00 o’clock news. I hadn’t said anything when I got home, figuring that the incident was really not that important. However, it was a slow news day, so there I was, talking to the TV reporter. Dad flicked on the recorder as soon as the segment was announced so that he could have a permanent record of his son’s heroics. I found that a little embarrassing, but even more so when he called Mom in to see her son on TV. Of course, she was horrified, but Dad and I enjoyed the show.

After the show was over, he made a big deal of telling Mom that she should never again try to get me to leave my gun at home, pointing out that I would be dead right now if I had not been able to reach that gun in the shop. Mom left the room crying because she had nearly gotten me killed, but she was fine by the next morning, which was Sunday.

I got a call from Mrs. Holsen thanking me for what I had done at the shop and asking if I could cut school for two days to take over while Mr. Holsen recovered from his wound. Hell, there was no way I could turn her down, and my parents agreed, so Dad called the school Monday morning to tell them that I would not be there for two days and explaining the reason.

I had gone by the Holsen house on Sunday afternoon and picked up the keys to the business, so that I could open up Monday morning. Mr. Holsen had two bakers working for him, so I did not have to worry about that; all I had to do was to be the front-man at the counter and the cash register. That I could handle.

The publicity from the TV report brought in a lot more business than usual for Monday and Tuesday. I was kept jumping and even had to stay open an extra half-hour to take care of the late trade. Of course, my friends from school had to come by to see the local “hero,” and that included Nancy Griffin, my current girlfriend. She gave me a big smooch and said that she had a special treat scheduled for our date Friday night. I could hardly wait!