"I swear I saw movement here!"
"Sweep the area!"
Iyisha's pulse hammered as she clutched her bag tighter. Noise burst from the alley behind them.
Boots on gravel. Doors slamming. Engines idling.
Malcolm glanced back, jaw tight, his eyes full of determination. "The gunshop would be the safest but the doors are probably booby-trapped," he muttered.
They entered through the broken side window.
They ducked in quickly, scraping hands and arms against broken glass. Iyisha hissed quietly as a sharp edge sliced deep across her palm, blood already welling. She clenched her fist, trying to stop the bleeding as they moved deeper.
Malcolm glanced at her hand. "Wrap it. You're leaving a trail."
She yanked a strip from her shirt and tied it quickly, wincing as the fabric pressed into the open cut.
The inside of the shop was wrecked with racks overturned, shelves emptied, shattered display cases. Dust coated everything but not a single weapon in sight.
"Stay low," Malcolm whispered.
They crawled behind the main counter just as engines growled outside. Two vehicles, maybe more. Heavy boots hit pavement.
Iyisha held her breath.
"I swear I saw something."
"Probably a shadow."
Malcolm didn't breathe. Neither did she.
The voices and footsteps moved on.
Five minutes. Ten.
Malcolm's gaze never left the floor in front of them.
"I think they're gone—" Iyisha started.
He shook his head again, signaling her to stay quiet.
He brushed aside the junk on the floor, a mix of broken screws, dust-caked rags, and shattered bits of packaging. Then his hand stilled.
A faint groove ran between two boards, a barely visible line slightly darker than the rest. Discolored and misaligned. Like it had been pried open before and sealed again.
He slid out his knife.
"What are you doing?" she whispered.
Malcolm wedged the blade between the boards.
Creak.
He pulled one plank free. Then another.
Canvas.
He tugged it out, unrolling the bundle carefully. Iyisha leaned closer, eyes wide.
Two pistols lay inside. One polished black. The other detailed with gold accents, the metal etched like artwork.
Beneath them: full magazines, boxes of ammunition. Clean. Wrapped. Dry.
Her voice was quiet. "How did you know?"
Malcolm didn't look at her right away.
"Owners always hid the expensive shits," he muttered. "Had a buddy who ran a shop in Montana. He kept a stash just like this."
He whistled softly as he turned one of the pistols in his hand.
"These aren't just for show. But damn if they don't look it."
He checked the chambers and both guns were loaded.
Iyisha reached out for one.
He hesitated for a breath, then handed it to her, grip first.
"You know how to use it?"
"Enough not to shoot you," she said, though her fingers trembled slightly around the grip. The weight of the pistol was heavier than she expected — dense, solid, nothing like anything she'd held before. It looked almost new, too beautiful to be real.
"How is it still in this condition?"
Malcolm was already packing the ammunition into her small bag, barely glancing up. "Canvas wrap with oil," he said. "It's dried now, but it did its job."
He peeked through the warped boards over the front window. The street was empty again.
"We move before they circle back," he said. "Stick to alley shadows. Fast and quiet."
Iyisha nodded, both hands wrapped around the pistol.
"We have guns now. We don't have to run every time."
Malcolm gave her a look, eyes tired but steady.
"No. But we don't have to die either."
They slipped out the back — armed, bleeding, and no longer helpless.