Staring At Death

Killian

Of all the violent, terrifying, bloody, life-threatening events I’d experienced in all my decades, somehow, I had never had a shotgun inches from my forehead.

Two dark holes with a quick death at the other end stared down at me.

But I had been just as quick to draw. My pistol was aimed at my assailant’s stomach. “I want to assume,” I said in a low voice, careful not to spook the potential shooter, “that you’re not Robert.”

“No. Who’s asking?”

I didn’t let the surprise show on my face. It was a woman aiming a shotgun right between my eyes.

“Who are you, what do you want, and what the hell are you doing on my property?” Her voice was husky, indicating she was older. If she had a shotgun in the middle of nowhere, she was either faking that she knew how to use it or she definitely knew how to use it. “And put that gun away.”

“I mean no harm. We’ll put them down together.”

She hesitated, not trusting a trespasser with a fatal weapon. She then stepped closer, the shotgun less than a